For The Love Of Our Sons
by FPinFC
Summary: An original live-action, drama/suspense story. Though it's not based on any one episode, you'll understand it better if you've watched the whole series AND if you've read my previous story called "Tribute." Chapters will published serially. Total size is 9 chapters.
1. Chapter 1 - The First Goosebumps

**Chapter 1**

**The First Goosebumps**

Greg Parker leaned back in his chair and laughed. Again.

Dean laughed easily beside him, finishing his narrative with obvious enjoyment of his father's amusement, though he wasn't telling it for Greg's benefit.

The intended audience, Craig Masterson, threw back his head and guffawed at the story's climax, joined in merriment by the two Parkers. The twinkle in Masterson's eyes made him look much younger than his gray hair implied.

Other restaurant patrons glanced over at them with mildly curious smiles, but they seemed to have decided long ago that the conversation at that particular table was going to run the emotional gamut. They politely ignored most of it.

"Oh my, oh my, that's wonderful," Masterson chuckled, shaking his head. Then he grew just slightly more serious, or perhaps he was just squinting at the ray of noontime sunshine that broke through a cloud just then. "I hate to see this interview end, I really do. I had had high hopes for it, but you both exceeded them." He looked straight into Greg's eyes, and then into Dean's. "You are inspirations, both of you, and I know that 'Canadian Cop' magazine is going to love this story! My hope is that it will be only the first in a whole series of 'Parent-Child Cop' stories that will help establish 'Canadian Cop's' place in the world of police-related magazines. Thank you so much for this!"

"It was our pleasure," Greg replied with a warm smile. Dean echoed the sentiment, and Masterson turned his attention entirely to the youngest Parker in return.

"One last question, Dean, if you don't mind. You have dual citizenship, as we've already established, and your American home is in a very large, famous metropolis. So what was it that has made you choose to enter the academy in Toronto instead of Dallas?"

Dean shrugged. "It was a no-brainer, really. First of all, I've known from the day I decided to become a cop that I would want and _need_ my father's help. I can't imagine not having him right here to help me through it...and, of course, Sergeant Lane, and Officer Scarlatti, and Officer Braddock, and all of the others. They're my heroes, my mentors, and my friends. Why would I enter an academy that's a thousand miles away from them?" He held up a cautioning finger. "But I don't want to give the wrong impression. By 'help' I don't mean anything like riding my father's coattails. I'm determined to carry my own weight and earn my own way. I'm thinking more of help with learning the ropes and dealing with the difficult emotional side of it all."

Greg put an arm across his son's shoulders and nodded thoughtfully. _I hope I'm up to it, Son. This job is going to hurt you so much more than you can imagine!_

Masterson nodded as well. "That makes a lot of sense. But I got the impression that there was more to your decision than just that."

Dean shrugged and smiled with just a hint of embarrassment. "Well, it's just that Toronto allows people to enter the academy at age eighteen, and I would have had to wait until I was nineteen-and-a-half, _and_ get sixty hours of college credit before I could enter the academy in Dallas. So I guess you could say it was impatience."

Masterson chuckled. "That works for me!" Then he turned to Greg. "What do you think of that, Dad?"

Both Parkers chuckled a little to hear him call Greg that.

"It's got to be hard for you to think of the danger and heartache that your son is going to face as a cop, right?" Masterson prodded.

Greg sighed deeply. "Yeah, absolutely. I mean...he already knows a lot as the son of a cop...but he's only lived with me off and on for a few years. He doesn't _really_ know...not firsthand_._" He held up a cautionary hand. "Now...he _does_ know firsthand pain from the perspective of a cop's loving relative, I would never deny that, but not the firsthand pain of having to take a life, or actually seeing a dead child, or any of the other heartbreaking things we see. He knows the theory, but the practice is going to be much harder than he can imagine. I've told him that many times, but I can see that he doesn't quite believe me yet."

"Is that true, Dean? Do you believe him?"

Just then, Greg's phone rang. He grimaced. "I'm sorry. I had set it to 'silent' mode for 2 hours, but I guess we've exceeded that. And it's Ed Lane's ringtone, so if you don't mind, I'm going to take it."

"Sure, go for it. I think you and I are through here."

As Greg hobbled off to a polite distance, leaning on tables in lieu of his cane, he heard Masterson and Dean reiterating their plans for this evening. They were to meet up with Clark Lane at a different restaurant, near the harbor, and do a "sons only" interview.

_That should be interesting. A son who decided to become a cop, and a son who would rather drop dead than be one._ He hit the "answer" button and held the phone to his ear. "Hey, Buddy, what's up?"

"Greg...I hope I'm not interrupting anything..."

"No, we were wrapping up our interview. What's on your mind?"

"I'm hoping you can help me figure something out...maybe put my mind at ease."

"Oh?" Greg's stomach tightened a bit. Ed was a big boy in a world of big boys. The one the other big boys looked up to. If something was worrying him, it was probably not a good thing.

"Yeah, call me crazy, but I've got the feeling that there's something that's just...it feels _threatening_, and I can't quite make out what it is. I don't have any solid facts...aww, I can't explain it over the phone! Can you come to headquarters?"

"Absolutely, anything I can do! I can leave now and be there in about 20 minutes. Will that work?"

"Oh man, I really appreciate it. Hopefully we won't get called out before you get here."

"How far into your shift are you?"

"Just started. But this is something that has been going on for weeks, and it's making my stomach turn. I can't explain why, though. Cop instinct."

"Buddy, your instincts are good enough for me. I'll be there in twenty." Greg hung up without a goodbye.

He hobbled back to the table where Dean and Masterson still sat. "I'm sorry, but I really need to go to headquarters and talk about some things with Ed...Sergeant Lane."

"Is something wrong, Dad?" Dean's worried brows matched his concerned tone.

Greg grabbed his cane. "Not sure. Just going to put my head together with Ed's and see if we can figure something out." He extended a hand to Masterson. "It's really been great to meet you, and I wish you and your magazine all the best."

"Thank you."

"Wait, Dad, do you have time for me to take my own quick picture of the three of us? It will only take a minute."

Greg glanced at his watch. "Yeah, okay."

Dean quickly leaned his phone against the ketchup bottle, framed up the shot as best he could guess it, and hit the delay button. When the flash went off, all three were arranged into a nice pose.

"That'll be a nice one. Send me a copy, okay?" Masterson asked.

"Doing it now." Dean was already fiddling with his phone. "Sending it to you too, Dad."

"Thanks. Gotta run. Nice to meet you again." Greg gave a polite wave and headed off.

"I'd better be going now, too," Dean said behind Greg's retreating back. "I'll see you this evening."

"I look forward to it," Masterson replied.

Dean's healthy young strides overtook Greg's in just a few seconds. "Seriously, Dad, what's going on?"

"Ed doesn't even know. Just something making his instincts goosepimply. He's hoping I can help him sort through what he's feeling."

"Sounds like something I'd love to listen in on."

"I know, but you've got class, right?" He tousled Dean's hair. "Mister-I'm-old-enough-for-Toronto-PD?"

Dean grinned. "Yeah."

"All right, then."

Dean opened the door for him, as Greg knew he would. They walked toward their cars together, and shared a hug before parting ways.

Greg activated his hands-free texting option and sent a message to Marina as soon as he was underway. "Great interview. Stopping by SRU to talk with Ed about something. See you when you get home."

She didn't respond, so she was probably in a meeting at work. _No matter. _

He arrived at the station a few minutes later than he'd hoped, but the lunchtime crowd had all been driving back to work at the same time, it seemed.

Winnie greeted him with a smile and a hug, as she always did if she wasn't tied up with dispatch duties when he arrived. That hug, and the buzz of nearby voices, told him the team was still here.

"Hey," he hollered toward the invisible voices, "why are you lazy bums just hanging around here? Can't you go roust somebody, or harass some honest citizens?"

Team One rushed him instantly with hugs and smiles, two things he could never get enough of from this particular group of much-loved colleagues.

Ed's smile was as big and genuine as usual, but Greg searched his eyes and found the concern he'd expected to see there.

"Okay, team, Sergeant Parker is right. Rappelling drills, right away. Jules, you're in charge. I have to talk to Greg about something."

The team responded with general groans and protests, all except for Jules, who instantly stepped into her leadership role with playful bossiness.

"C'mon, does anybody believe that Ed's got something important to talk to Sarge about?" Spike complained.

"Sure, he's got to talk to him about how funny it is to watch us sweat while he sits on his backside and watches us!" LeClerc responded.

"That's what I'm thinking," Spike replied, but the whole crew was well on their way by then, and soon Greg and Ed were alone. The two friends still smiled from their team's lighthearted banter, but the seriousness in Ed's eyes soon overtook everything else.

"What's bugging you, my friend?" Greg asked.

"Ah," Ed scoffed at himself. "I'm probably crazy. I haven't mentioned it to anybody else because of how crazy it sounds. I haven't even put a lot of serious effort into figuring it out. But it's not going to give me any peace until I deal with it, and I figured you were the person to tell..."

"...because I already know you're crazy," Greg finished with a grin.

"Yeah." Ed's easy grin flashed quickly, and he gave Greg a hearty thump on the back...but not nearly as strong of a thump as he once would have given, back when Greg had two good legs.

"Well, let's sit down to talk about it. You know this leg of mine." Greg started for the briefing table in mid-sentence.

"Yeah, I'll be there in a minute." Ed walked over to the dispatch desk. "Winnie, where's that stuff I asked you to pull together?"

"Right here." She handed him a folder.

"Thanks." He tapped it on the counter a few times by way of acknowledgment, and then headed for the briefing room where Greg awaited him.

"So, what have we here?" Greg nodded toward Ed's folder.

"It's all the details of a series of swatter calls we've gotten over the past several weeks."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, way more than usual."

"Let me guess...the prankster electronically distorted his voice and used an untraceable phone..."

"Of course. Spike hasn't been able to figure out who it is...in fact, he can't even prove it's a single person. Sometimes the accents are very different. But I think they're all the same person or group. And I think he - or they - are in it for more than the joke."

"Well, we've certainly had swatter calls aimed at us for sinister reasons before, but not over a period of weeks like you're talking about."

"I know." Ed opened the folder and spread each of the reports out on the table in front of Greg. "Like I said, I haven't actually looked at all of the paperwork together like this yet, myself. But I've sure chewed on this a lot. And the feeling I get is like how you feel when you've seen a face, and you can't figure out why you recognize it." His hand made a sweeping gesture over the spread of papers. "Somewhere in here is a pattern that makes a face, and I need help seeing whose it is. Because whoever it is, he's giving me the creeps."

Next: Chapter 2, "Puzzle Pieces."


	2. Chapter 2 - Puzzle Pieces

**Chapter 2**

**Puzzle Pieces**

"Now, here's the first thing you should know," Ed began. "We've gotten exactly two of these calls every week. And for the past three weeks, it's been consistently one on a Tuesday, and one on a Friday. I haven't looked back to see if that pattern existed prior to that."

"Whoa, that definitely suggests a single source, maintaining a pattern like that over weeks at a time." Greg surveyed the reports with even more interest.

"Yeah, and with today being Friday, we expect one. I'm hoping maybe we can predict it if we figure this out."

"Ok, then, what are some other commonalities amongst them all?" Greg murmured, more to himself than to Ed. "Locations? Let's pin 'em on a map."

"Good, but I can tell you that I've been pondering them, and nothing springs to mind." Ed powered up his tablet. "Read 'em off to me, and I'll mark 'em."

The marks came out looking scattershot. Both men looked them over and shook their heads. "The very definition of 'randomness.'" Ed noted.

"Yeah. Now let's check on that Tuesday-Friday thing." Greg looked back over all of them. "Uh huh, yep, yep, yes! Absolutely. Tuesday and Friday. All of them, all the way back."

"Okay, here's a thought. Let's try just looking at the Tuesday locations, and then just looking at the Friday ones, and see if some sort of pattern emerges."

"Worth a try."

In a couple of minutes the newly marked Tuesday map presented itself, but neither man could make anything meaningful out of it. Same with the Friday one a few minutes after that.

"Okay, types of calls. Are they all murders, kidnappings, jumpers, what?" Greg started making piles of the various types of calls...but again, no pattern emerged. "Not looking too promising," he grumped.

He looked over at Ed, who was busily typing. "What have you got?"

"Nothing yet. I'm checking the dates of the swatter calls against dates of high-profile calls we've handled over the years. In fact, let's throw in all lethal calls, whether they were high-profile or not. How about that?"

"Sure, why not."

Ed typed without comment for several more minutes, while Greg fussed with whatever papers Ed wasn't currently using, and wracked his brains for any sign of a pattern among them. Other than the Tuesday-Friday thing, he could come up with nothing.

"Any luck?" he asked at last.

"No. Nothing." Ed sat back in his chair and sighed. "This is what I was afraid of. I've been chewing on this in my head for a while now, and no pattern would emerge. I had a feeling that a closer look wouldn't do it either. That's why I wasn't willing to eat up Winnie's time with researching it." He shook his head. "But I just can't get rid of this feeling, and I'm telling you, it feels like...like a trap that I should be able to see. Like these are all strands of a spider's silk, and I can't see them clearly enough to perceive the whole web."

Greg felt the word "trap" settle over his soul like the hand of Death itself. He'd never forgiven himself for sending Donna and Jimmy into one.

Winnie took a call, and Ed raised an eyebrow at Greg.

Greg knew just what he was thinking. _Who knows? Maybe this is today's swatter call._ Greg looked at the array of reports again. _I sure can't predict anything from these._

"Team One, hot call, a jumper..." she read off the address, and Greg quickly made a note of it. _Not much chance it will mean anything, but no harm in checking._

"Listen, if you don't feel like wasting time on this, I don't blame you a bit," Ed called as he trotted to gear up.

"No, no, I don't mind. I hate traps."

"Yeah. Thanks."

The rest of the team had now arrived from their exercises, having of course heard the call over their headsets. Another few minutes and Greg had the whole place to himself...except for Winnie, of course. He listened to her intently until it became clear that this call was legit. Then he turned his focus back to the reports of the swatter calls.

_C'mon, why are you scary to my friend?_ Greg couldn't feel any threat from them, though he couldn't deny that they were hinky.

He tried breaking down the data into any desperately improbable pattern that he could imagine. But after a while he had to admit that he was looking at variables which were too far-fetched to have created such a response in Ed's gut.

_No, it has to be something palpable...something tangible to Ed. _

_Hmmm...palpable...tangible...a gut feeling..._

_Wait...maybe it's because he was actually there, on scene!_

Greg knew Toronto better than most people ever would, and he sat back now and pictured the location of the first swatter call. It was a completely nondescript locale, and to the best of his memory, they'd never handled a call at that building while he was on the team. But he planted his imaginary feet in front of that building and did a slow 360, looking at everything Ed would have seen while he was there. Soon he began to write down notes to that effect, and planned to do the same for each report.

Once he felt confident that he'd pictured the locale accurately, he turned off his analytical side and parked himself there emotionally. _How would this place feel to Ed?_

He kept taking notes, resisting the discouraging conviction that he was grasping at straws. _C'mon, Parker, it's not like you've got anything better to do today. And besides, if Ed's right..._

It took quite a while for him to do these 360-tours in his memory, so he still had quite a few more to go when Winnie called to him that the team was on its way back. He checked his watch. _2:50 already? Where has today gone?_

After several moments he felt a presence over his shoulder, and turned to see Winnie standing there, looking at his papers with obvious curiosity. "I've been listening to Ed telling the team why you're here and what you're working on. Would you mind if I have a look, too, as long as I'm not needed at my desk?"

"Sure!" he gestured expansively to welcome her to the whole array. "Help yourself. I'm not getting far." He told her about his mental-image tours, and what hard work it was to be sure he was seeing everything that Ed would have seen.

Winnie started to suppress a smile, which unfortunately only turned it into a smirk. A smirk which warned him that he was about to feel stupid.

"Okay, what's that look on your face for?"

She looked down, still trying unsuccessfully to hide her amusement. "It's just...well, let's say I'm glad I caught you doing this before Spike saw it."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Well, Boss...why don't you just use Google Maps?"

He dropped his pencil on the table and let his hand slam down after it. _I'm an idiot!_ But he figured out how to cover for himself. "Because I don't have a computer here, do I?"

"Well, I didn't know what you were doing until just now." She shook her head. "Here, let me get you what you need." Soon she'd set Greg up to search with a tablet computer.

He pulled up the maps, and quickly decided to zoom down to street view. _Eddie hadn't been looking at these neighborhoods from the back of an eagle._

"Okay, so Boss, why don't I just take the notes you already made about the locales you've thought about, check them on my computer, and make sure you didn't miss anything, okay?"

"Okay, thanks, Winnie." He indulged in another half-disgusted laugh at himself. "Just don't tell your boyfriend about this, okay?"

"My lips are sealed, Boss," she replied over her shoulder.

"Your lips are sealed about what?" Spike asked, rounding a corner into view, ahead of the rest of the team. He stopped near the desk, his face announcing that he was eagerly poised to jump into the fun.

The rest of the team walked in right behind him.

"If I told you, they wouldn't be sealed any more, would they?" she asked him, and then made a zipping motion across her lips.

"Well then...I guess I'll just go put my stuff away and let you two lovebirds keep your secrets." He couldn't manage to seem truly irritated, but he clearly felt very curious now.

"That's right, Spike, I've been having a secret rendezvous with your sweetheart while you were away," Greg called, turning his attention back to his work.

"Yeah, yeah. I always suspected that about you two." That was nonsense, and everyone knew it.

The lighthearted atmosphere prevailed while everyone got their stuff put away, leaving Greg in no doubt that their call had gone well.

Nobody was lighthearted when a subject jumped.

Soon Greg had colleagues all around him at the table, and he relished the camaraderie. But then he remembered that they were there for their briefing, not just for his company. He started to clear up his papers, but they stopped him.

"We'll help you out as soon as we're done, Buddy," Ed promised. "It won't take any time at all with all of us involved. And I like your idea of 'neighborhoods' and 'ambience.' This really has been a gut-level thing, like I said, so that's a good approach. Just chill with us while we debrief."

Greg acquiesced, and soon found himself savoring the experience. _Funny, I never really enjoyed debriefings when I was a part of them._

It didn't take long, what with the happy ending and all, and they soon got down to the business that occupied Greg. All of the team members set up their own tablets and took a report form in hand. They would take care of those that remained in no time.

"This is kinda dumb, really," Spike noted. "I could probably query the computer..."

"No, Spikey, as much as I appreciate your technological genius, I don't think computers can feel ambience. I want to see these places with my own eyes...to see what Ed was seeing. Besides, can your computer really tell you what's 'visible from' those locales, as opposed to just what's near them?"

Spike seemed intrigued. "You know, with a little time, I could probably make it happen..."

"Just focus on this, okay Pal?" Greg chuckled at him. Spike was the only person he knew would could sparkle about computer stuff the way some guys sparkled about new girlfriends.

_Of course, he gets that way about Winnie, too._

No one spoke for a while.

Finally, Greg sat back, finished with his reports. He only had to wait a few minutes before the rest were done as well. Spike insisted on collecting them all, which made sense, since he was the best data-head of the bunch.

He spent a few moments arranging them in chronological order, and then looked them all over with intense focus. He clucked his tongue a few times.

"Several of these locales are within sight of places where we took some emotional calls...but then again, several of those are tall enough buildings that they're visible for a long way. I don't know how helpful this is."

"Like what?" Greg prompted.

"Well, it struck me that the first incident was within easy sight of First York Plaza and its towers, but some others are as well, because of the towers' heights, right?"

"Yeah, right." _Maybe this wasn't such a great idea_.

Spike shrugged. "Still, it might mean something. I mean, they're not _that_ tall, compared to other buildings around. So maybe it's significant that they show up more than once."

"Do any of the swatter calls coincide with the date of your York Plaza shooting, Ed?"

Ed grimaced thoughtfully, and unhappily, it seemed.

"I mean," Greg continued with a shrug of his own and an instinctively softened voice, "it wouldn't be the first time you've been targeted because of that event." He could feel Ed's discomfort with that topic, even after all these years.

"Petar Tomasic is dead," Ed replied, slightly tight-lipped. "Goran Tomasic had no other survivors in the area. There's nobody left to want revenge for that one."

"Okay, well, it's worth at least keeping in the back of our minds." Greg let it go, but he could feel the tension remaining in the whole room. _Everybody feels it._

_I thought Eddie was over it more than that._

An awkward silence had settled over the table, with each teammate sneaking glances at Ed while pretending to be fascinated with other things...like the wood grain on the table.

"Okay, guys, I'm sorry," Ed finally broke in. "I'm over it...I've been over it for a long time. That's not what this is. It was just the idea of a _new_ campaign of revenge against me personally that got to me." He shook his head, eyes lowered. "I've been through it once, and I don't ever want to go through it again."

A wave of relief flooded the room as each team member accepted Ed's explanation...or, more likely, as they took comfort in the fact that he'd admitted what was troubling him. Most of them could remember how the old, "everything's fine" Ed had nearly imploded from the weight of his unshared burdens. Nobody wanted to see him start to close off again.

"But Greg's right," Ed added. "We mustn't rule anything out. That would be irresponsible."

They all nodded.

Spike went back to studying his reports. Everybody else seemed to zone out for a few.

Greg certainly did. He was back at Plaza One. _It wasn't really that long ago._ He could see himself standing behind the protective barrier, trying to de-escalate a madman in a language he didn't even know. And yet his strongest reaction to the memory now was a sense of strangeness...the strangeness of a Greg Parker who thought absolutely nothing of being able to stand for long periods of time. Or walk. Or run. Or rappel (_I hated that one, but I sure could do it_)...

Spike's voice jerked Greg out of his thoughts. "No links with the date of the Plaza One shooting. I've found a couple more swatter calls that were within sight of other scenes where we've had high-profile situations. But the rest are not." He dropped the papers with an attitude of frustrated resignation. "I don't think this is going to help either. If it _is_ someone with a vendetta, who's to say it's over a killing? It could be over a suicide we failed to prevent, or..."

"...or a successful arrest of someone's loved one...I know, I know, it was a long shot." Greg sighed deeply, then reached to pat Ed's arm. "I'm sorry, Buddy. I thought I might have been onto something for you. Looks like I haven't been any help at all."

"Well, maybe you were right about the other thing you said," Ed replied.

"What other thing?"

"You know, the part about me being crazy." He smiled broadly at Greg's laugh, but the smile didn't reach his eyes, and it quickly faded.

Those eyes immediately stifled Greg's chuckle. He kept his hand on Ed's arm for a few moments longer. "I'm not done trying, you know. I've got your back, Buddy."

Ed just nodded with that little half-smile that spoke more of gratitude than happiness.

Next: Chapter 3 – "Danger Zones"


	3. Chapter 3 - Danger Zones

**Chapter 3**

**Danger Zones**

For a time, the only sound at the table was the occasional shuffle of papers in Spike's hands, or his tap-tapping computer keys. Everybody else sat lost in silent thought.

The sergeant in Greg began to feel a little antsy to get the team busy again, to get them doing something that would justify the taxpayers' expense. _Eddie's usually more gung-ho about keeping them active than I was. In fact, he was often the one that kept them hopping even when I was still with them._ He sneaked a glance at his friend, whose preoccupied scowl revealed how much this was eating at him.

Spike muttered, "I should have thought of this before," and all eyes turned toward him.

He seemed to feel them. "I'm checking to see if there's any pattern with regards to time of day, or day of the week. Like, you know, have we had a disproportionate number of high-profile calls on Tuesdays and Fridays, or around 5 pm." He glanced briefly at Greg. "Ed did tell you that these calls usually come around 5 pm, didn't he?"

Greg furrowed his brow. "No, he didn't." He looked over at Eddie again.

Ed raised his eyebrows. "Not sure why I overlooked that." He glanced at his watch. "It's 4:00 now."

Greg felt really troubled now. _It's not like him to leave out a huge detail like that!_ His eyes narrowed as he studied his friend openly. Ed didn't even seem to notice.

_If it weren't for the whole Tuesday-Friday pattern, there would be nothing to indicate that this isn't all in his head._ Greg began to feel a little queasy in his gut. _And he's not really himself right now, is he?_

_Could he be making something out of nothing? That wouldn't be like him, either._

Greg hated this train of thought. Eddie had been his rock for years. Even when the whole PTSD thing had shaken Eddie violently, he'd maintained amazing composure, at least at the surface, for many months.

_Until the Harold Beamer thing finally broke him completely. And yet, he had the strength even then to go get help, and to come back and open up with us like never before. It was the beginning of the new Eddie. _

Greg relaxed his scrutiny before it risked becoming too uncomfortable. He focused on the table instead. _He's always come back stronger. So no, I can't imagine that this would be 'all in his head.'_

_But he did say it would be unwise to overlook any possibility. And I really don't know what stresses he's been under._

"Hey, uh...Ed," he broke in to his friend's thoughts somewhat reluctantly. "It seems like Spike's the only one who is coming up with ideas right now. Maybe the others could go work out or something, and you and I could talk."

He instantly felt the tension at the table increase a little bit, as everyone absorbed the import of his words. _They all know I want to assess Eddy's emotional state._ He tried to keep his expression completely casual, even though he knew his team would not be fooled. But it didn't matter too much. There was no shame in teammates checking up on each other. It happened all the time on healthy teams.

Greg's meaning was clearly not lost on Ed, either. He looked straight at Greg even as he addressed his team. "Okay, yeah. Spike, you keep working on this problem, and the rest of you hit the gym."

No one offered even a token protest, and that spoke volumes. Griping about exercise was part of the usual fun around here.

Spike seemed uncomfortable, unsure of whether he should stay here to do his work or find another place.

"You can stay, Spike," Ed said softly.

"Okay." Spike focused on his work with very deliberate intensity, to give the others at least an illusion of privacy.

"You know, I was just kidding about me being crazy," Ed began, without much humor.

Greg smiled, more for Ed's sake than anything. "And so was I. But listen...have you been under a lot of stress lately?"

"No...no more than usual."

"At home..?" Greg glanced over at Spike for a moment, knowing how much Ed disliked discussing family troubles in front of the others.

Spike instantly increased his work focus, which had already been intense.

Greg turned back to Ed, who simply shrugged.

"It's okay. I mean, Izzie's doing the pre-schooler thing, which means she bounces back and forth between adorable and insufferable..."

Greg chuckled.

"But Sophie's really good with her, you know? And..." he shrugged again, his eyes unfocused as he examined his life in his mind's eye.

That was a good thing. In the past, whenever he'd been trying to cover up, he'd always looked Greg straight in the eyes to tell him everything was fine. But at the back of those eyes, Greg had always seen triple-deadbolted, bulletproof doors.

_I could see that he didn't even want to look at the truth himself, much less tell it to me. But he's really examining himself right now. Really thinking about what I've asked him._

"...and we've never gone back to what was wrong before, you know, when I wouldn't open up to her. Things are a lot better that way. Amazingly better. And of course Clark's not home any more, but he comes by to visit. We get along well now."

"That's great."

"And...at work, things have stayed intense, like they were when you were here, but I don't think they've gotten worse."

"No really gut-wrenching lethal calls?"

Ed sighed. "Nothing like May Dalton or Harold Beamer, if that's what you mean. They're all hard, of course. But none like those."

They fell silent for several long moments.

"And this feeling of dread or danger...is it only happening during the swatter calls?"

Ed raised his eyebrows and spent a few more moments in obvious introspection. "Yeah...yeah, I think so. I don't remember any other types of incidents making me feel that way."

"Guys," Spike interrupted, his tone urgent. "I may have something."

"Oh?" Both men stood. Ed hurried over to Spike's side, but of course it took longer for Greg to get there.

Spike waited for him, though he bounced a little in his chair with his excitement, and kept his eyes locked on his screen. When Greg arrived at his side, Spike's words rushed out in a torrent.

"I just happened to notice that there was a striking similarity between a few of these, and here's what it is. The first swatter call was to a location two blocks Southwest of Plaza One, and that was our team's first lethal call, right?"

"Right." Both men nodded.

"Ok, well, by itself that didn't really catch my eye, of course, but then I noticed that the third call was two blocks Southwest of where Petar Tomasic was killed. And he was our third lethal call, right?"

He looked up at the two sergeants with an intensity that was all Spike. "Do you see it? _First_ swatter call, two blocks southwest of our _first_ lethal call. _Third_ swatter call, two blocks again, southwest again, from our _third_ lethal call."

"And both of them were Tomasic killings," Greg noted, almost under his breath.

Ed sucked in a sharp breath and shook his head, clearly still troubled by the implications. "Yeah, but Spike, you went from first to third. What about second?"

Spike shook his head. "Second swatter call wasn't within direct sight of our second lethal call."

"What was our second lethal call?" Greg asked. With a little thought he would have figured out which one had been second, but he didn't want to take that much time. This thing was starting to spook him.

Spike didn't have to glance at his notes for that one. "City Central Bank. George Orston."

"Yeah, right." _I hated how that ended!_

"So where is that in relation to swatter call number two?" Ed pressed. He clearly wanted to make this _not_ be about men named Tomasic.

"They _are_ close, but not line-of sight. Let's see..." Spike tapped keys and brought up the proper locale. "It's..." his jaw dropped, and he turned huge eyes back up to the sergeants. "Two blocks southwest."

Ed's eyes grew as large as Spike's were, and Greg knew he probably looked just as stunned himself.

The next several minutes were a flurry of tapping, mapping, and confirming.

Every swatter call, _every one_, was two blocks southwest of its corresponding lethal call from Team One's history.

"There's your ambience, Eddy," Greg murmured. "You know this city as well as I do. You didn't need line-of sight to know, at least in the back of your head, that these things were always depositing you close to places where we'd had to kill." He put a hand on Eddie's shoulder. "You were right, Buddy. You were absolutely right."

Spike began typing frantically.

"But what's the end game?" Ed murmured. "Why do this?" He looked back at Greg, searching his face for answers that he would not find. "When does it come to a head, and what will that look like?"

"If it's about the time you and I spent working Team One together, then our last lethal call was the Toronto Bomber, and its corresponding swatter call would be two blocks southwest of Fletcher Stadium, where you killed him. But if it's not about my tenure here...well...you've had lethal calls since then. I'm not sure how many, though."

"Oh no..." Spike's voice interrupted them, and it held dread. He looked back up with those huge eyes again. "This may be it. Today."

"What? Why?" Both men fired questions at him.

"Our next lethal call...the next one chronologically due to be swatted...was Paradigm Offices. Oliver Hammond."

"Paradigm! The call where I met Marina..." Greg's voice trailed off.

Ed's tone grew more urgent. "But what makes you think today's is the endgame? What makes the Paradigm call different?"

"When we were correlating swatter calls with dates, we never found matches, right? Well, we didn't look at today's date, did we? But we're expecting a call today, because it's Friday, right? And I just saw that today is the anniversary of Oliver Hammond's death." Spike jabbed his index finger down on the table with every few syllables, as if he were trying to point out the obvious. "This is the only one that falls on an anniversary, guys. That's got to mean something!"

Greg and Ed both stood, silent and stunned, thinking. But after a few moments Greg's leg distracted him with a stab of pain, and he sat down. "That's right," he murmured. "Today _is_ the anniversary."

"You hadn't realized that before?" Ed asked with obvious surprise. "I mean..._I_ didn't know the date, but it was a pretty huge date in your life, and your wife's." He shrugged. "I just figured you'd have known it."

"No, I made a point of pushing that date out of my head, and I advised Marina to do the same thing, very early on...only about our second or third date. I told her that I try to do that with painful work-related dates, because I would hate to be haunted on every anniversary of them."

"Interesting strategy."

"It helps." Greg grabbed his phone and texted Marina. "Where are you? Is everything ok?"

"Guys, what do we do with this?" Spike brought them back to the present. "You said you hoped we'd be able to predict his next move. Well, now we can, at least within a small area."

"Yeah, we should definitely make sure we're in the vicinity, but I'd like to narrow it down further, if possible." Ed's tone became more commanding. "Winnie, get the rest of team back in here, please."

She hurried to call them.

Greg's phone buzzed with a text message. "I'm home. All is well. Home soon?"

One knot untied in his gut, but then he remembered that anyone can pretend to be anyone else by texting on their phone. _I need to hear her voice._

He texted back, "I'll call." As he dialed, he heard Ed giving orders.

"Spike, now that you've found a pattern, see if you can find any predictive factors that might narrow down exactly where this call might take us, and what we might expect to find there. Because if you're right, and this is the endgame, we could be looking at the trap my gut's been warning me about."

"You got it."

The team hurried in, and Ed quickly updated them.

Marina answered Greg's call, and she sounded fine. He knew from experience, from the very first time he'd heard her voice, how she sounded over the phone in a hostage situation. So he relaxed even more.

But not completely.

"Listen, hon, just do me a favor. Be sure everything's locked up, don't answer the door, and report anything suspicious right away."

"What?" Now she sounded alarmed. "What's going on?"

"I don't have time to explain, and it's probably nothing. The fact is, I don't fully understand what's happening here, and...well, we're trying to put a puzzle together. Figure out some strange clues. And it looks like there might be a connection with Oliver Hammond."

She gasped. "With Ollie? Honey, I don't understand!"

"Neither do I, so I can't tell you more. I've just got a bunch of strange coincidences here, and maybe I'm overreacting, but I need to know you're safe. So promise me you'll do what I said, okay?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"All right. I have to go now. Please don't call me unless it's urgent, and then don't hesitate to. I'm still doing a lot of mental work trying to help the team figure this thing out. Okay?"

"Okay." She sounded really scared now, and he regretted it.

"Honey, I'm sorry to scare you. It's probably all for nothing. Just playing it safe, okay? I love you."

"I love you."

He hung up and looked around the briefing room to see how things were progressing. Every team member sat in front of a tablet computer again, with every brow furrowed.

Greg looked at his watch. "It's past 5:00 now, guys, and we expected the call by five." A sudden thought struck him. "What time was Oliver killed, Spike?"

Spike checked, and once again his expressive face said it all. "It was 5:07 p.m. That was like a few minutes ago. It's already past."

Everyone stopped to stare at him as the words sank in, and then they resumed whatever analysis they were doing, with even more fervor.

"And now that last swatter call is overdue," Greg noted. "Did they _all_ come at 5:00?"

"Yeah, or close to it. The latest one came at what time, Spike?"

Spike tapped his keys a few more times, then answered with something like awe. "The latest one was at 5:07 pm."

His awe settled over everyone.

"Why didn't it come today?" Spike asked at last.

Greg murmured an answer he didn't want to say. "Because this time it was for real." He turned his gaze back to Ed, searching his face the way he always did when he needed reassurance. "Whatever was going to happen has already happened. The real deal, not pretend. We just don't know about it yet."

Greg got up and hobbled to the other side of the table where he'd left his cane. Then he walked to the dispatch desk so he wouldn't have to yell. "Winnie, please look up all of Oliver Hammond's living relatives."

"Copy that." After a few moments she added, "I'll send them to your tablets. You can sit down and be comfortable."

"Thanks." He patted the counter a few times to emphasize his gratitude, but decided it was time to head for the restroom instead of the briefing room.

When he returned, everybody was still busily doing computer-y stuff. He sat down, and Spike addressed him. "There were quite a few living relatives, but none with criminal records. None of them looked familiar to any of us, either. Winnie sent them over in zipped files, if you want to take a look."

"A zipped file..." Greg repeated under his breath. _Do I know how to access those? _These were newer computers than he'd used in his day. The others seemed very comfortable with them, but they were already so engrossed in their own work that he didn't want to interrupt them with his ignorance.

_If they didn't recognize any of those people, it's not likely that I will. I can make better use of my time working on the "endgame" puzzle._

He had some angles to check out in that regard, but after attempting to find correlations among those possible variables, he saw all his hopes fizzle out.

"Does anybody have anything?" he asked.

"Not really, no." Everyone responded with something along that line.

"Do we have a list of possible locations in the two-blocks-southwest-from-Paradigm zone?"

"Yeah, here, I'm sending it to you now." Spike hit a few keys, and the list popped up on Greg's screen.

He looked over the list of business names, hoping they would strike some chord.

_Nothing. Nothing. How can you match something to a group of other somethings that don't even match with each other?_

But something _was_ tingling in his gut, and he kept reviewing the list of potential targets to see if he could figure it out. He finally did zero in on one.

_Why is this restaurant's name bothering me? _

He looked over his list of previously swatted locales and lethal calls again. Restaurants did not figure in any prominent way.

He stared at the restaurant's name again. _I know this is important..._

Suddenly it hit him. His stomach lurched.

_It's got to be a coincidence. It has to be!_

He fiddled around with the zipped file until he stumbled on the way to open it, and to see Oliver Hammond's living relatives.

The first face he saw made his blood turn to ice. He cried out and lurched up to stand on his good leg, his face filled with horror.

Next: Chapter 4 – The Trap Snaps Shut


	4. Chapter 4 - The Trap Snaps Shut

**Chapter 4**

**The Trap Snaps Shut**

Dean arrived at the designated restaurant a few minutes early. He saw no sign of Clark's car.

_No surprise._ Clark had never taken punctuality very seriously, at least not for things he wasn't thrilled about doing. And he was _not_ thrilled about this interview.

Dean had already set his phone to "Do not disturb," so that he wouldn't forget to do so later at the interview. So he checked his phone frequently as he hung out beside his car and waited for his friend.

_As chilly as it's getting, I may go inside soon, whether he's here or not._ He folded his arms for warmth. _This Texas boy may never get used to Canadian cold!_

To his surprise, Clark's car turned into the parking lot at two minutes before four. _Here with time to spare!_

He waved, and his friend pulled into the closest available spot.

Dean walked over to Clark's car and right up to the window, so Clark opened it. "What's up?" the young Lane asked.

"I got a call from Mr. Masterson a little while ago, but he said he hadn't been able to get ahold of you."

"Yeah, my phone's off. I've been in rehearsals and stuff all day. What was the message about?"

"He changed the location of our meeting. Said he'd found a place that suited him better, and he'd explain it once we got there. Do you want to ride over there together?"

Clark shrugged. "Sure, hop in." He hit the button to unlock the passenger doors, and Dean let himself in. "What's the address?"

"I've written down the directions. Map coordinates, actually. He wants us to go to this scenic spot he says will let him get great pictures. It's outside of town, though, near someplace called 'Glen Major Forest.' He said he liked it for several reasons, and he'd explain more when we got there."

Clark grimaced. "What? Glen Major Forest? That's out in...like...Uxbridge or something, right?"

Dean shrugged. "How would I know? I just know it's not in Texas. Here, I'll set the GPS to take us to these coordinates, but when the GPS reception gets iffy, we're supposed to just keep going on to a certain mile marker, and then stop at the next wooden foot bridge. He said we couldn't miss it."

Clark glared at him out of the corner of his eye. "Oh, this is just great!"

Soon Dean's phone spoke in its nasal, robotic tones, and Clark reluctantly began to drive where it told him to go.

"So, you still haven't told your dad about this interview yet, have you?" Dean asked.

"Nope. I don't have a clue how this is going to go, and I don't want to be on record saying anything that might hurt Dad's feelings. But you know what happens. People complain about it all the time after they get interviewed. Reporters get them to say things they never intended to say. So I figured I'd let him know about the interview _after_ I was sure I liked it. And if I don't like it...well, like you said, it's an upstart magazine out of Vancouver. Hopefully Dad will never hear about it."

"Even with me and my dad being interviewed in it? C'mon!" Dean scoffed.

"I know where you live, and it's easy to find recipes for poison on the internet." Clark shot a look at Dean which he probably hoped would be at least mildly threatening, but the sardonic grin on his face spoiled the effect for him.

Dean laughed. "Okay, okay, whatever."

"Your dad will keep my secret, right?"

"He's good about stuff like that, as long as he thinks it's ethically defensible."

Clark just rolled his eyes. "I hope his ethics line up with mine."

"Speaking of my dad," Dean added, "I'd better call him and let him know about the change of plans."

"Why? I thought he wasn't coming to this one."

"He's not. It just seems like the right thing to do, that's all."

Clark scoffed. "Man, I don't get you. You're eighteen, you live on your own, you're in the police academy, and you still think like a kid who lives at home. Grow up and cut the umbilical cord, will you?"

"Fathers don't have umbilical cords to cut, numbskull."

"You know what I mean."

Dean just shook his head. But he didn't make the call.

They turned the radio on low, and rode in relative silence until they were several miles outside of town.

Clark started getting antsy. "I should have filled the gas tank. I wasn't planning to go anywhere near this far."

"Maybe there will be a station soon." Dean glanced at his phone out of habit. "No signal here, except for GPS."

Silence reigned for a while.

"GPS is really getting iffy here." Dean tried not to sound as worried as he felt. "Yeah, it's gone, like he said it would be. Listen...my battery's about dead. Where's your charger?"

Clark scoffed. "Good luck finding it! It's buried under junk in the back somewhere, I think." He saw Dean's glare and rose to his own defense. "What? The cord was always in my way up here, and it bugged me!"

Dean shook his head.

"Look, you know that so much of my time is spent in music class, in rehearsals, or in performances, that my phone is off a lot of the time. I don't have to charge it very often. I catch up with all my texts and stuff between classes, or when I get home. I figure there's no need to leave it on when it's muted, so I keep it off. Saves my battery."

"Great. What do you do in an emergency?"

"Turn on my phone, airhead."

Dean just shook his head in disgust and turned his phone off.

Silence settled over them for several more miles.

"This is stupid. I never wanted to do this in the first place, and I'm really tempted to turn around," Clark grumped. "I don't even get how he's supposed to take decent pictures when it's going to be night soon!"

"Wait, wait, wait, there's the mile marker he told me about...and look, right there's the wooden footbridge! See? That wasn't so bad."

"Okay." Clark pulled over, and the engine fell silent.

"I doubt we're going to park here, dude, this is just where we're supposed to meet him." Dean checked his watch. "It's just a little after 5:00. We're fine.

"That wasn't 'parking,' Dean, that was 'running out of gas.'" Clark looked at Dean apologetically. "My gauge is sometimes a little off..."

Dean groaned. "You've got to be kidding me!"

"Hey, it's the best car I could afford!" He rolled his eyes. "Dad wants me to pay my own way, learn to be responsible with money and all that stupid stuff, so he doesn't help out with money...much."

Dean pointed. "Look...there's a car coming up the dirt road." They watched it approach, stop, and park. A man got out and began walking toward them.

Dean relaxed instantly. "Oh good, that's him. I'm sure he'll take us to a gas station afterwards."

Clark's jaw was clenched with obvious frustration. "This had better be worth it, Parker. And right now, 'worth it' would mean paying us a couple thousand dollars. Which isn't likely to happen, is it?"

"No. Sorry." Dean got out, and Clark followed suit.

The reporter quickly joined them, and he shook Dean's hand firmly.

Dean made the formal introductions, though of course they were hardly necessary under the circumstances.

"Craig Masterson, Clark Lane."

The two shook hands.

Masterson put his hands on his hips and looked the two young men over, a little oddly, Dean thought. "I'm so excited about this idea, guys! I think we'll get great shots to go with a great interview." He stared at them wordlessly for several long seconds, and for the first time, Dean began to feel uncomfortable with him. He couldn't have said why.

"You can't know how long I've been looking forward to this, boys," Masterson said at last.

Clark also seemed a bit uncomfortable. "Uh...I'm afraid my car just ran out of gas..."

"That's unfortunate. But don't worry. You won't be needing it."

Masterson's whole expression changed, his whole demeanor changed...even the vibes he gave off changed.

Dean's stomach dropped with sheer terror, though he still couldn't see any reason for it.

Masterson's voice grew icy, matching the coldness of his eyes. "I plan to get great shots. Too bad for your sakes that they won't come from a camera."

He pulled a gun and leveled it at Clark.

###

Every one of Greg's teammates leapt reflexively to their feet along with Greg, and they all cried out at once. "What is it? What's wrong?" or variations on that theme. Every face wore a horror that mimicked what he felt himself.

"The first picture, Hammond's father, that's Craig Masterson!"

"Who? Greg, what are you talking about?" Ed had a firm grip on Greg's shoulders now.

"Craig Masterson, that's what he called himself...oh, why didn't I see it? I'm supposed to be so intuitive, but I didn't see he was a fake. Why didn't I see he was a fake?" He grabbed Ed's arms and clung to them. "It was a trap, Eddie, but not for us...for our sons! He's after our boys, Eddie!"

"Our boys? What are you talking about? What does this have to do with Clark?"

Greg jerked an arm free of Ed's grip, fished his phone out of his pocket, and hit the speed dial number for Dean. "Call Clark, Eddie. RIGHT NOW! Call him!"

Ed still seemed thoroughly confused, but as usual he listened to Greg. "Okay, okay Buddy, I'll call him, but you've got to tell me what this is about. In fact..." he turned his attention to the dispatch desk, where Winnie also stood in complete alarm. "Winnie, call Clark for me, will you? I need to find out what's going on."

"Copy that."

"Come on, Son, answer me, answer your phone!" Greg was panting now, as close to genuine panic as he'd ever been.

The symptoms weren't lost on Ed. "Sit down, Greg, sit down and make some sense of this for me! Who is this guy, and what's going on?"

"Clark's phone seems to be off, Ed," Winnie called.

An expression of deep worry crossed Ed's face, but he quickly resumed a more professional one. "Clark's phone is off a lot of the time. Greg, our boys will be okay. You know that. They _have to _be!"

"What, like Lew had to be? Like Donna had to be?"

The words hit Ed's calm exterior like high-caliber rounds. His nostrils flared, and his breath came short.

Greg's thoughts suddenly cleared with the raw certainty of what he needed to do. He stood again, despite Ed's hand on his shoulder, despite his bad leg. "We've got to get to the Flying Goose Café, Ed! That's the restaurant on the list, two blocks southwest of Paradigm, and it's the restaurant where Dean and Clark are supposed to meet THAT MAN!" His voice rose to a shout as he jabbed his finger toward the screen. "Oliver Hammond's father, Craig Hammond...he lied, he said his name was Craig Masterson, and he was starting up that new police magazine. You know that he interviewed me and Dean this morning, but he was also going to interview Dean and Clark at 4:00 this afternoon at the Flying Goose!" He turned to Winnie. "Get uni's to the Flying Goose NOW, and tell them to seal it off completely! Nobody in or out! And give them Dean's and Clark's photos and license plate numbers. Plus photo and license plate on Craig Hammond." He turned to Ed again. "We've got to go to the Flying Goose now too, Ed, NOW, and if you don't understand everything, I'll explain it on the way, but we have to go NOW!"

"Okay, Buddy, okay, we're gearing up now." Everybody ran for their lockers.

"Uni's should start arriving there momentarily," Winnie reported.

"Not fast enough, not fast enough," Greg fumed.

The team geared up as fast as they ever had in their lives, but it seemed like hours. When they rushed back toward the exit, passing by Greg, Ed handed an extra headset and vest to him. "If you're coming, you're going to need these."

"Yeah, okay." Greg tried to take the vest, but Ed didn't release it.

"Greg, I'm not kidding you, so you'd better listen. You're NOT coming unless you calm down, you hear me? You haven't been faced with a crisis of this magnitude in a while, and you're out of practice. I can't have a panicked cop with me right now, okay? Are you with me?"

Greg forced his breathing to slow down. "Yeah, yeah, I'm good, Eddie. Let's go."

That was the biggest lie he'd ever told.

"Don't wait for me and Greg," Ed called to the others as he helped Greg put on his vest. "We'll catch up. You just get there."

A chorus of "Copy that's" accompanied the team's hurried rush ahead and out of sight.

Greg roundly cursed his bad leg with every four letter word he knew as he hobbled toward the garage. "I'm holding you back, Eddie, I'm holding you back..."

"The team will get there really fast, and the uni's are already there. It's all good, Buddy. Chances are this was just a coincidence, and the boys will laugh at us for showing up in force like this."

"Yeah. Sure." _Fat chance, and you know it._

"Go ahead, Winnie," Ed said into his mic, and Greg realized he'd never put his earpiece in. It was still in his pocket. But by the time he got it into his ear, Ed had already acknowledged Winnie's information, and nothing more was forthcoming from her. But Ed ordered her, in clipped tones, to give him everything, no matter how trivial, that she could dig up on Craig Hammond.

_I don't like the look on his face..._"Ed, you'd better level with me. What did Winnie tell you?"

"We're almost to the garage. I'll tell you when we're on the road. Focus on speed right now, Buddy."

_So much for, 'it's all good!'_

Somehow they made it to the garage and into the one remaining truck. Ed peeled out of the garage with siren wailing, and Greg nailed him with a no-nonsense demand. "What did Winnie say?"

Ed's jaw worked as if it was hard to force the words out. "Dean's car is parked out front of the restaurant, but the uni's showed pictures to all of the staff, and none of them have seen Dean, or Clark, or Hammond."

Greg's mouth went completely dry. He couldn't even speak.

"So why didn't I know anything about this supposed interview?" Ed demanded. And then, into his mic, "Winnie try calling both boys again."

"Clark wanted to keep it a secret, in case he wasn't happy with how it went."

"And you let him keep that secret?" Ed sounded angry.

"He's a grown man, he's entitled to his privacy with decisions like this! It's not like it's illegal to give an interview!" His tone started out angrily defensive, but by the end of his declaration he sounded pleading. He could hear his own heart breaking. "I've let you down, Eddie, I've let you down, and I've let our boys down, and we could lose them, we could lose them both! Hammond wants to make us lose our sons like we made him lose his!"

"Stop it, Greg. You need to calm down or let me drop you off somewhere."

Greg turned his face toward the window. He knew Eddie would never carry out his threat, but the sheer fact that he'd made such a threat underlined how badly he needed Greg to pull himself together.

"Sniper breathing, Buddy," Ed said in a softer voice. "This isn't your fault. How could you have known?"

"I should have! I'm supposed to be the guy with the 'radar,' right?"

"Dean's got a pretty good radar, and he didn't catch it either. Some people are like that. Sociopaths. They can even fool lie detectors."

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of. Our boys are in the hands of a sociopath."

Silence fell, and it weighed a ton.

Ed's breathing grew louder and quicker. "No. Hammond didn't have a criminal record, or even any psych flags. A sociopath couldn't get to that guy's age without a criminal past, or flags of some type."

"You know as well as I do there's a difference between a 'past' and a 'record.' Only the ones who get caught have records."

Ed just shook his head, but that was his way. He had always dealt with the unthinkable by refusing to think it. Usually, Greg was content to let Ed reassure him, even when he didn't believe him. And, usually, Ed and the team managed to make things work out tolerably well.

But Greg couldn't bring himself to swallow the optimism this time. It was too big to believe, it wouldn't yield to the softening effects of rumination, and it only gagged him instead of going down.

"Winnie, was there any sign of Clark's car at the restaurant?" Ed asked.

"No," she replied. "And both boys' phones are off."

"Find out their last known GPS location, Winnie," Ed ordered.

"Copy that."

Greg wanted to vomit.

Next: Chapter 5 – "Babes in the Woods"


	5. Chapter 5 - Babes in the Woods

**Chapter 5**

**Babes in the Woods**

Dean and Clark stood staring in disbelief at the gun and the man who held it.

Clark looked as scared as Dean felt, but he looked a bit angry, too.

_What do I do? What do I do?_

_Dad would know what to do._

Masterson kept his gun steady in one hand, and reached to the back of his belt with the other.

_Is he getting another gun?_

The man pulled out a pair of handcuffs and tossed them at Dean's feet. "Cuff Lane to that tree." He pointed to one nearby.

Dean scoffed with what he hoped was bravado, though it sounded rather wimpy in his ears. "Why would I do that?"

"Because I'll kill him if you don't."

"You'd better do it, Dean," Clark said through clenched teeth, already placing himself against the indicated tree.

"Are you sure?"

"I can't outrun bullets, can you?"

Masterson smiled the smile of the victor. "Smart kid. You'd better listen to him."

Dean bent and picked up the cuffs. They felt strange in his hands; cold and heavy. His breath came shorter. _How can I put these on my friend?_

"Do you want me to kill him now?" Masterson yelled, and Dean's whole body flinched.

"Do it!" Clark hissed.

Dean put one cuff around Clark's wrist and tightened it. "I'm so sorry, Clark!"

"Not your fault."

"Both hands, do it now!" Masterson snarled.

Clark brought his other arm around behind the tree for Dean to cuff.

Ratcheting that cuff onto Clark's wrist felt like driving a knife into his friend's chest. _He's helpless now. Completely helpless._

_I made him come here!_

_And Dad has no idea where we are, or even that we're in trouble!_ For the first time, he felt a twinge of anger at Clark. _'Cut the cord,' huh?_

"Now you, Parker, where's your phone?"

"My pocket."

"Take it out, slowly, pull the battery out, and throw them both into the woods."

Dean hesitated, but Masterson's face contorted, and his gun hand firmed up its aim.

Dean took out his phone, looked at it with more affection than he'd ever felt for it before, removed the battery, and tossed them just barely into the brush. It felt like throwing away his only hope.

"Okay, now face down on the ground."

Dean's heart leapt into his throat, and he complied as the sound of it throbbed in his ears. He only hoped its pounding wouldn't be drowned out...or stopped...by the bark of that gun.

"Hands behind your head, fingers interlaced, now!"

Masterson walked up to Dean, gun still aimed at him, no doubt, though Dean couldn't see for sure.

Wild, reckless thoughts ran through his mind; of fighting back, of running, of screaming for help. But he knew he could nothing, nothing at all.

Sudden agony struck him. It took a moment for his head to clear enough to realize that Masterson had dropped his full weight onto one knee on the small of his back. He could barely breathe, much less resist the cuffing of his hands.

_How is Dad ever going to find us?_

_Will we be dead before he even suspects something's wrong?_

"All right, Parker. On your feet." Masterson grabbed Dean's arm and hauled him upright, though his knees almost buckled from the pain in his back. "We're going to that tree next to Lane's tree, and I'm going to cuff you to it. And you're not going to do anything stupid."

Masterson needed have worried about freeing one of Dean's hands for the few seconds required to get them around the tree. Dean knew he was in no shape to try any kind of escape or resistance.

"Lane, where are your keys and your phone?"

"In the car," Clark answered. "The keys won't do you any good. I'm out of gas, remember?"

"Shut up, Lane." Masterson turned and scuffed away down the dirt path, toward Clark's stranded car.

"What's he doing? Where's he going?" he hissed to Clark. "Why is he doing all this?"

"How should I know? Maybe this is part of his interview." Clark's voice dripped with sarcasm. "How cops' kids handle crises."

_I thought you weren't blaming me._ Clark's sarcasm cut deep.

"Hey," Clark yelled, "there's nothing in my car worth stealing, you know. Is that what this is about?"

"You're an idiot," Masterson hollered back.

"Then what are you ransacking my car for?"

"Just looking. In case there's anything here I would regret not knowing about. Or any good contraband I might enjoy."

Clark just scoffed, but quietly.

Dean started to squirm a little. "An ant or something just crawled down my shirt!" he muttered.

"We'll be lucky if that's the worst thing that happens here," Clark replied.

Dean couldn't come up with a response to that. He stared at the ground and tried to make himself figure something out.

_Has my dad tried to call me yet? Probably not. He won't want to risk interrupting my interview._

Dean's head jerked up when he heard something that sounded like rocks being thrown into the trees. "What was that?" he whispered.

"He found my phone," Clark replied softly. "Took the battery out and threw them into the woods. Far in." He squirmed around a bit. "This is killing my arms!"

"I'm so sorry, man. What are we going to do?"

"I don't know, and quit apologizing, okay? Nobody's blaming you."

Dean snorted. _You are._

###

Ed and Greg pulled into the parking lot of The Flying Goose, which was already painted with an array of blue and red flashes. Ed turned off the siren, but kept the lights flashing on their truck, too.

"Don't wait for me," Greg commanded. "I'll get in there as quick as I can."

Ed sprinted into the building.

Greg followed at his fastest pace, which was not a whole lot faster than his usual one. It hurt him more, though, and he was huffing by the time he got into the building himself.

He saw Ed talking to Spike, and he headed over to them himself. A moment later it dawned on him that he wasn't hearing their conversation over his headset.

_Oh no you don't! You're not going to shut me out!_

"What channel are you guys on?" he demanded. Now that he thought about it, he realized he'd been shut out from the rest of the team's conversations since they left headquarters.

Spike looked guilty. "Two, boss."

He switched over, and a tumult of voices hit his ears. But he was used to filtering through all of that while conducting his own conversations.

"Don't cut me out again," he growled. "I can handle it. Now what is it that you didn't want me to hear?"

Ed sighed. "Okay, here's the scoop, as much as I know. None of the staff here remembers seeing Dean, Clark, or Hammond. There are no cars in the parking lot except those that belong to current patrons, and Dean's. But just a minute or so ago, a staff member handed Spike a note that had been left by someone during the earlier shift. No one currently on shift ever saw the man who left it, but they've called in someone from the earlier shift to see if they can ID him from our photos."

"Let me see it."

Spike shot another unhappy look at Ed, but he opened the note and came and stood next to Greg and held it open for him to read. Spike was wearing gloves, and Greg wasn't, so he couldn't let Greg hold it himself.

The note said,

Parker and Lane –

You didn't think I'd make it this easy for you, did you?

The boys aren't here.

By the time you find this, they'll be out of your reach forever.

Something in Greg shut down, shunted the truth away from his consciousness. This note was no longer about boys that he knew. It was about strangers, and this was just an ordinary work day, like the old days.

"Who was this addressed to?"

Spike re-folded the note and showed Greg the outside. It read, "For customers who inquire after Parker, Lane, or Masterson."

Greg sighed, and then clenched his fists as the truth tried to invade his heart again. _No. We'll find them._

_These aren't our boys._

He looked over at Ed and saw a man fighting down the same torment, while also struggling for ideas and insights.

"Excuse me, Sergeant Lane?" an unfamiliar voice broke into Greg's thoughts, and he turned as Ed did.

"Yes?" Ed responded to the young uniformed officer who addressed him.

"Officer Callaghan wanted me to inform you when we were through dusting Parker's car for prints. It's done, and you're free to inspect it."

"Thank you, Constable." Ed turned to Greg. "Nobody is more qualified than you to tell us if something is amiss with his car, Greg."

Greg nodded mutely.

_No more, 'these aren't our boys.' I have to inspect his car as his father. As his father..._

Ed put a supportive hand on his shoulder, and Greg made himself look into those other pain-filled eyes. The eyes of another father scared to death for his boy, who also didn't have the luxury of sitting back and wallowing in shock and letting the pros handle it.

_We are the pros. And now that I'm here, I can really start acting like one. For Dean's sake._

Winnie's voice broke through. "Ed, I have the last known GPS location for Dean's phone, from 4:42 pm. He was eastbound on the 401 in Uxbridge."

"Uxbridge!" Ed nearly yelled it. "What are they doing out there?" No answer came, because no one had one. "How are you coming with the boys' phone records?"

"That was the next thing I wanted to tell you. This is just preliminary, of course, but the only interesting thing I've found so far is a call to Dean's phone at 3:36 pm from a throwaway phone. Untraceable."

"Thanks, Winnie. Now I need you to contact Uxbridge and give them everything we have on Hammond and the boys. Tell them to start looking. Keep them updated right along with us, and let them know some of our people are coming out that way. Tell them we will respect their jurisdiction and all of that, but these are our boys, and we have to be there."

"Copy that."

"And as soon as you're done with them, call that throwaway phone, and patch it through to me if anyone answers."

"Copy."

Ed turned to Greg. "That's what I figured. He didn't meet them here and kidnap them, Greg. He changed the plans over the phone, and they drove out to meet him."

"No, Hammond _must_ be in the car with them, Ed," Greg protested. "He must have forced them at gunpoint. I know my son. He would have called me about a big change of plans like that."

"Then where's Hammond's car?"

"Maybe he had an accomplice," Greg shot back, gesturing toward the customers. "Maybe one of them drove Hammond here, or somebody else did it and left!"

"Not necessarily," Spike cautioned. "Think about it. This guy posed as an interviewer, and made himself look legit by doing an actual interview with you, right? Maybe he contacted them and changed their meeting place. A couple of eighteen-year-old kids...maybe they bought it."

Greg shook his head emphatically. "No way. Dean would have called me. That's just the way he is."

Spike shook his head. "Look, we've personally talked to everybody here, and nobody seems to know anything. They don't seem like they're lying or covering up, not at all. Nobody here has any red flags associated with them, either."

"Neither did Hammond," Greg growled.

Winnie's voice came through. "Uxbridge acknowledges. I've called the throwaway, but it's either off or out of range."

"Copy that, Winnie," Greg responded. It had probably been Ed's place to reply, but he looked like he was about to give a piece of his mind to the people near him.

Greg was right about that, as usual when it came to reading Ed.

"Okay, look." Ed's tone was commanding. "The uni's can cover these guys. Team One, I want you on the road to Uxbridge. Greg and I will join you after we've looked through Dean's car." He grabbed a uniformed officer. "Be sure to let us know immediately if the employee identifies the man who left the note."

The officer nodded.

"Team One, let's go! Fast is good!" Jules commanded.

"Copy that." The rest of Team One headed for their trucks.

_She's a great Team Leader, _Greg thought with a twinge of pride. But a split second later his heart sank again under its unbearable burden.

He forced himself to start the painful, hobbling trek toward Dean's car.

Ed fell in beside him, matching his pace. He put a hand on Greg's shoulder. "We'll find them, buddy. We'll find them. Alive and well."

"Yeah. Yeah. We will." He stopped a few paces short of the car. "You know what keeps socking me in the gut, Eddie? I don't know what I'm going to tell Joanne..."

Ed squeezed his shoulder, hard. "You're going to tell her that you helped rescue your son, and he's fine. Now let's have a look in this car."

Greg nodded, forcing himself to focus on the car through the image that kept swimming before his eyes. A note. Handwritten.

_By the time you find this, they'll be out of your reach forever._

"He wrote it by hand, Eddie. No attempt at disguise."

"I know."

"Have they dusted it for prints yet?"

"They were going to do that next."

"Ask 'em."

"Greg..." Ed's voice took on a warning tone.

"Fine. I'll ask. Winnie, did they find prints on the note?"

"They haven't told me. Let me ask." She came back to him in a matter of seconds. "They found Hammond's prints all over it."

"I knew it!" Greg's stomach dropped even lower, and his heart bottomed out somewhere even below that.

"Stop torturing yourself, Greg. Focus on the car."

Ed knew what thought was tormenting him, of course. Hammond had clearly plotted this thing for ages. Yet now that he'd come to the endgame, he wasn't trying to hide his identity. He'd had plenty of time to plan how to do so if he'd wanted to.

_He doesn't care if we know who he is, because he plans to put himself out of our reach, too. _

_This will be a murder-suicide._

_It may already be one._

_Joanne will never forgive me. I will never forgive myself. Dean, you're on your own, so be brave, son! Think, figure it out, stay alive! I'll get there as soon as I can, I promise!_

"Greg!" Ed's voice commanded him to focus.

"Yeah, sorry."

"Buddy, I'm feeling this every bit as much as you are. You know that. But I'm still an active-duty cop, and I haven't forgotten how to keep pushing through it all. I don't think you have, either. You just need to find the way again, Greg. Dean needs you to find it again."

"Yeah. Copy that."

In his mind's ear, Greg heard Dr. Toth's challenge from years ago, when Eddie had been shot so many times. _'Can you stay objective?'_ And his own tightly-controlled response, '_I know how to do my job.'_

_I'm still Sergeant Greg Parker. I still know how to do my job._

He crossed the remaining few feet to Dean's abandoned car. All of its doors stood open, awaiting him. The sight made his skin crawl. It screamed "Foul play," as loudly as did the black smudges all over it from the fingerprinting dust.

_Focus._

Greg slid into the driver's seat and looked around. "First impressions: perfectly normal." He pulled down the visor and saw the registration papers right where they belonged. Dean's academy parking hangtag dangled from the rearview mirror. The GPS unit, which Greg had given him, sat on the dash. _'It will save your phone battery,' I told him._

_Focus_.

He opened the glove box and sorted through its contents. "Normal."

Ed had climbed into the backseat at the same time that Greg had taken the front. "The only abnormal thing here is how neat your kid is. If it weren't for the two food wrappers back here, I'd wonder if it had been cleaned out by our subject. Is he really this neat?"

"Yeah, he's a pretty tidy guy." _He's a great young man in every way, and I need him to be okay!_

"Clark's car always looks like the city dump," Ed grumbled. That, too, was his way. When he could no longer refuse to think the unthinkable, he'd shore up his heart with a layer of crustiness, just to get himself through it.

_You'll be crying like a baby when you get your arms around that boy. And that's if he's okay. _

Greg didn't even want to contemplate what would happen to his friend if Clark were taken from him. Even now, he could almost hear Ed screaming his son's name in the City Hall parking garage.

"Does Sophie even know he's missing yet?" Greg asked. He looked in the review mirror, and Ed met his gaze there.

"No, not yet. Does Marina know about Dean?"

"No. Neither does his mom."

Ed got out of the car. "Nothing here that the naked eye can see. I'll check the trunk." It already stood open, of course, like the doors.

"Nothing here, either, at least not to my eyes." Greg got out as well.

Neither officer voiced the continuation of that thought. _Forensics might find a lot. If it comes to that._

_Please God, don't let it come to that._

"There's a box in here, and it's closed. Do you want me to open it, or do you want to do it yourself?"

Greg joined Ed even as the latter finished his question. "I'll open it," he replied.

He reached for the box and felt the same guilty sensation that he always felt when prying through victims' private things. He always tried to maintain a respectful attitude while doing so, no matter how much he had to hurry.

"Team One, what's your status?" Ed asked.

Jules replied with their location, still within Toronto city limits.

Ed checked his watch, and Greg could sense that he was biting back a comment.

He checked his own watch, and understood Ed's restraint. They really had made good time already.

"Winnie, have you tried calling the boys lately?"

"I've got them auto-redialing, boss, but the phones aren't merely going unanswered. They're either off or out of range."

"Thanks. Keep trying."

The box opened easily in Greg's hands. The top panels had merely been folded, not adhered in any way.

Inside he found a birthday card, sitting on top of its envelope.

He gasped. It said, "For My Father."

He picked it up like a sacred thing. Underneath it was an item still inside of a plastic store bag. He opened it, blinking back tears.

It was a set of framed, beautifully scripted documents, obviously meant to be hung on his wall. _What could these be? _He picked them up and started to read the words, and then he could no longer see them for the tears that welled up again. He set them down and walked away a few paces.

He heard Eddie picking them up, and that was fine. He would understand.

Ed more than understood. Greg heard his breath catch, heard a few whispery sobs.

Greg worked for several seconds to find his voice. "They're already miracles for us, Eddie. Dean wasn't supposed to walk back into my life. Clark, by all rights, shouldn't have survived City Hall. We have to believe that they're meant to stay with us, Buddy, we have to believe that."

He heard Ed take a few heavy breaths before he whispered, "Yeah, yeah."

Greg still didn't turn to face his friend. Ed's grief would only make his own tenuous self-control collapse even further.

They both stood silent, reining their breathing into sniper-like patterns, when Winnie's voice broke in over their headphones. "Uxbridge PD has found Clark's car, out of gas on one of the main roads in Glen Major forest." She gave the specifics, and then continued, "No sign of the boys or of Hammond."

Jules responded, "Copy that. We'll head to that location."

"Any damage to the car, or signs of injury or struggle?" Greg heard himself ask. He hardly knew where his voice had come from. It seemed disembodied, but he knew that it was asking, in more polite words, if there was blood at the scene.

"They said it looks like it's been ransacked, but nothing more."

"It looks like that all the time," Ed murmured. His voice still sounded hollow.

"Jules, I've dealt with Uxbridge PD before. Good folks. No power struggles or ego trips in the past, anyway. Just use your Jules charm to get them searching for the boys, and leaving the car to us." The reality of the situation hit him again, and he physically flinched.

_Focus._ He took a deep breath. "All due respect and all that, but they're a smaller department, and I don't know how well they handle crime scenes."

"Copy that, Boss. I'll have 'em feeling like I've praised their people-searching skills when I get 'em away from the scene."

"That's my Jules. Though of course you'll have to get one of them to dust for prints, but only when you're there to supervise."

"Copy that. And, Boss...we'll find them. We will."

"I know you will." He sounded choked up again, and he knew it. He also knew that the whole team could hear. But he didn't mind. They were family.

"And, Jules," he continued, "if you can keep them from engaging the subject, or making their presence known to him if they find him, even better. We...we can't prove this, but he's acting like this might be a planned murder-suicide. The sight of cops could set him off."

"We were thinking the same thing." Jules sounded so gentle, despite saying such hard words, that Greg felt his strength melting again. He turned, walked back to Eddie, and put a hand on his shoulder.

Ed just stood there for a few moments, accepting the offered support, and then walked away, wiping at his eyes.

"I need to know how you're holding up, Eddie," Greg choked.

Ed took a deep breath and looked around before answering, no doubt wanting to make sure no one but Greg would hear his reply. When he did answer, though his self-revelation was far more honest than he would have given anyone else, he still didn't look in Greg's eyes. "I'm ricocheting around. Ready to cry, then ready to kill; hopeful and determined, and then despairing...but we can't indulge that, can we." He turned to look at Greg now. "Though really, what can we do, legally?"

"I know, I know. A lot of police departments won't even let a close family member get anywhere near a thing like this, especially where loved ones' lives are actively threatened. SRU regs, even the revised ones, give us a lot of leeway, but they would still discourage us from engaging under these circumstances. The decision is going to rest in Jules' hands, right? And we're going to have to abide by her decisions."

"Yeah. I hope I can, when it comes down to it." Ed seemed to be looking at something very far away right now. And it bugged Greg. _The old Eddie would have been on the road to Uxbridge as soon as the location was given._

_He's not himself._

_Not that I'm exactly at my best either._

He clapped a firm hand on Ed's shoulder, and his friend looked him in the eye. "Look, Ed...I'm ricocheting around the same way you are, but I know what will help put solid ground under my feet again. It's duty, Ed. Duty. The training and rules and regulations that guide us...I have to believe that, when we're on scene, and Hammond is there for us to deal with, we'll rise to the occasion. We'll do our duty...and we're _good_ at it, buddy..."

Ed looked away, a strangely bitter expression on his face.

"...and we'll get our boys back, Eddie. We will."

Ed shook his head. "Duty." The word sounded like an epithet, the way he said it. But then he sighed and shook himself. "We'd better get there."

"Yeah." _And I'd better figure out where you're at while we're on the way._

Ed started walking toward the truck, and Greg fell in beside him. _But that's not all we have to do on the way. _

"When do we tell the gals, Eddie? Joanne and Sophie and Marina? When do we tell them?"

Ed's breath caught.

"Marina will be upset, of course, but she's not flesh-and-blood. But Joanne and Sophie...we don't want them hearing it from the media, Ed."

"Yeah," Ed nodded. "Now. We have to do it now." He shook himself, and his eyes took on their old fire. "But we'll tell them while we're on the road."

"Good. Let's go."

Next: Chapter 6 – "Deeper Into Darkness"


	6. Chapter 6 - Deeper Into Darkness

**Chapter 6**

**Deeper into Darkness**

Dean couldn't help crying out in pain as he toppled, headfirst, into the trunk of Masterson's car. His back still hurt like fire, and with his hands cuffed behind his back, he couldn't stop himself from landing face-first on top of Clark.

Masterson picked up his ankles and wrenched them around to stuff them into the trunk as well, forcing another cry from Dean.

The trunk slammed shut.

Dean lay still, panting.

"You okay?" Clark asked eventually.

"Yeah. Just fine," he gasped.

"I don't suppose you could get your elbow out of my side...?"

"Sorry."

The two spent several long moments trying to arrange themselves into the least miserable position they could find in the small trunk. They finally settled on one that kept anyone's knees or elbows from digging into the other.

"What in the world is this about?" Dean wondered aloud yet again.

"I don't know, man. But you're the son of the big shot crisis negotiator. Haven't you learned anything about negotiation?"

The thought caught Dean off guard. He'd been wracking his brain all along, trying to force himself to think like a cop, but he'd only thought of tactical types of activities. Dad-style negotiation hadn't really come to mind.

_That's weird...I usually try to talk through things._ Almost instantly he saw himself and his father at the table this morning, laughing with Masterson.

_I guess I just don't trust my judgment right now._

"Well?" Clark prompted.

"Umm...let me give that some thought."

"I won't stop you."

Dean thought back to all of the times he'd heard his dad over the radio. But his dad had so many different relational styles! He always found the one that suited the occasion, almost instinctively, it seemed. But that made it maddeningly difficult to find a pattern.

_Maybe I should think about the ways he's related to me._

_But I'm not a murderous madman..._

_Dad, I'm sorry! I never should have let Clark talk me out of calling you! But it's not his fault. It's my fault for giving in to the pressure. I should have called. Dad..._

He could almost see it...could almost see their fathers' faces contorting with grief over the sight of their dead bodies, their knees buckling under them...

_Stop it!_

_But it would kill them. I can't let it happen. I can't._

He started trying to practice sniper breathing, but even then, images of his mother and stepfather began to swim before his mind's eye. They, too, would be devastated. _And Mom would totally blame Dad._

_Do they know yet? Does anybody know yet?_

"Sniper breathing, Dean. C'mon, buddy." Clark's now gentle voice brought him back from the edge of his own personal abyss.

Dean focused for several long moments. But then he couldn't keep his thoughts inside anymore. Maybe it was their close proximity, but he had to clear the air between himself and his friend.

"Look, there's no point in saying you don't blame me. I know you do, and...well...I blame myself, too."

"I don't blame you," Clark replied in an almost grudging tone. "This is partly on both of us, and completely on him. And it's him we've got to worry about. Let's focus on that."

"Okay."

They both grunted as the car lurched. The tires began to crunch over gravel, leading Dean to believe that they had left the main road.

_How will they ever find us?_

###

"Ed, I think you need to make your call first. Joanne's not likely to hear about this on the Dallas news, but Sophie is likely to hear it here."

Ed's face contorted with pain. "Yeah, okay."

They were almost at the truck, so Greg took hold of Ed's arm to stop him. "I'd better drive while you make that call," Greg continued, as gently as he could.

Ed merely nodded. Then, eyes suddenly moist again, he drew in a deep breath and walked to the passenger side of the truck.

For the first time in years, Greg slid behind the wheel of an SRU truck. The nostalgic thrill of it nearly made him forget his pain for a moment.

But only for a moment.

He pulled out of the parking lot, and Ed pulled out his phone.

_I don't envy you this call._

Greg didn't let himself think about the calls he needed to make.

_At least Sophie and Ed love each other. Joanne and I..._

His mind balked. But even so, he knew he couldn't avoid talking to her this time. _No going through Glen. He's OUR son, and I need to tell her._

"Hey, Soph..." Ed's voice cracked.

Greg could hear Sophie's alarm from where he sat.

"Honey...I don't know how to tell you this. There's no easy way..."

Greg could hear her voice again, strident with fear. But the only word he could make out for sure was "Clark?"

"Yes, baby, it's about Clark. He, um...Sophie..." He rubbed at his forehead. "He's been kidnapped. He and Dean, both."

"Kidnapped?" Sophie's voice went on, and Ed broke in to tell her what little they knew. It went back and forth for a while, but Greg's mind went elsewhere.

_Who am I kidding? Joanne won't see this on the Dallas news, but Shelby will see it here and call her! _

_Joanne needs to hear it from me first, not from Shelby._

Ed was breaking down badly now, but was still making promises to his wife. Promises that he would find their son, rescue him, bring him back into his mother's arms.

_The same promises that he made on the day of the bombings. But he doesn't sound as confident this time._

_What on earth am I going to say to Joanne?_

_I'd better call Shelby first._

_I hope I wake up soon, and this was all just a nightmare..._

His mind wandered back to the interview from this morning, back to Masterson's...or rather, Hammond's face. He searched his memory now for clues, for hints. _How did I miss it? How?_

"Okay, I'll call you as soon as I know anything for sure, baby, okay? I love you, bye." Ed hung up, then dropped his forehead into his hand and squeezed his temples.

Greg drove in silence, one hand on Ed's shoulder. Once he thought Ed had pulled himself together sufficiently, he chose a good place to pull over. "I'd better let you drive. I've realized I have several calls to make." He took a long look at his friend's face. "That is, if you're okay to drive."

Ed took a few more deliberately deep breaths. "Yeah, yeah. Okay."

They made the exchange as quickly as possible, and as soon as they were underway, Greg set his headset to talk to his phone.

He dialed Shelby's number first.

She hadn't heard yet, and she'd had the news on, so their situation was still under the radar. She expressed shock and horror and everything else Greg expected to hear, and then she offered to call her sister.

"No, Shelby, she needs to hear it from me. I know...I know...but he's our son, Joanne's and mine. I need to be the one to tell her. Okay? Will you let me do that?"

"How soon will you call her?'

"As soon as I get off the phone with you."

"Okay, you be sure you do that, because I can't keep this from her. I'm going to start calling her number in like ten minutes, so you make sure you've called her before then if you want to beat me to it."

"I will. But look, I can't be sure I'll be able to get her right away. For all I know she could be gabbing with a friend right now. You know how she likes to talk on the phone. So please wait an hour at least, okay?"

"Okay."

Greg hung up, sighed deeply, and turned to look at his friend. "And to think...that was the _easy_ call."

Ed just shook his head, his haunted eyes never wavering from the road.

"Joanne and I haven't spoken a civil word to each other in a dozen years," Greg murmured. But he dialed as he spoke.

_Dean says she's been a lot better since the night of the tribute. Maybe this won't turn into a hate-fest._

_Maybe we can help each other through this. _

The phone began to ring, and for the first time in ages, Greg felt his old love for Joanne welling up inside of him. The love that had both created Dean and nurtured him in his earliest years. A love that instinctively wanted to protect her from the very pain he was about to give her.

_Surely we can unite for the sake of our son. _

_Our son._

His breath caught as the phone picked up.

"Hello Greg, sorry it took me so long to get to the phone." Glen's easy-going voice and manner normally set Greg at ease, but not this time.

"Glen..." Greg hated that he could hear the pain and the fear in his own voice. "I need to talk to both of you together right now, okay? Please ask Joanne to get on an extension."

Glen's voice suddenly filled with something close to terror. "What is it? What's happened to Dean?"

"Please, Glen. Put Joanne on, too."

Glen spoke quietly enough to Joanne that she must have been in the room with him. "Honey, Greg says he needs to talk to both of us. Get on the extension, Baby." His fear must have shown as clearly to Joanne as it did to Greg, because Greg could hear his ex-wife voicing her own fears as she moved away toward some other phone.

Greg closed his eyes. His heart pounded in his chest.

"Hello?" Joanne's voice broke in.

"Joanne, Glen...look, it's about Dean, like you suspected."

"What's happened to my baby?" Joanne's tone held some accusation as well as fear. That was no surprise. "Has he been in an accident? Is it bad?"

"Guys, look, there's no easy way to tell you this. Dean has been kidnapped. He and Clark Lane. We're looking for them now, and we don't know much. But I didn't want you to hear this from the grapevine. You deserve to hear it from me."

"Kidnapped? KIDNAPPED?" Joanne shrieked it. Glen voiced his horror, too, and for several moments Greg couldn't get any words in at all.

Not that he could have spoken right now, anyway.

Ed put a hand on his shoulder.

###

The dirt and gravel rode became bumpier and bumpier, and Dean could no longer hold his thoughts together. They seemed to bounce apart into shattered pieces with every painful lurch.

Clark, too, seemed capable of no more than a grunt with each jolt.

The oxygen seemed a bit scarce in the trunk, too. And it didn't help that both of them were sweating profusely.

Dean felt lightheaded.

Branches began hitting the car, sometimes even the roof, as low as it was.

They finally stopped, and at first Dean felt relieved. But then he heard Masterson get out and walk toward the trunk, and sheer terror filled him.

Clark's breathing grew heavier, too.

The trunk popped open, and Dean's heart sank to see how dark it was. Still a little bit of light left, but not enough to last for long.

_How far are we from our car?_

_Have the police found it yet?_

Masterson grabbed his arm and yanked him upright. He kept pulling, too, not even allowing Dean's cramped body to find its balance. He fell out of the trunk onto one knee. Masterson jerked him to his feet.

Clark soon stood beside him. And the sight of him now brought his earlier words back to Dean's mind.

_Haven't you learned anything about negotiation?_

"So, Mr. Masterson..."

"You're an idiot, Parker. Do you really believe I gave you and your father my real name?"

"Then who are you," Clark broke in, "and what do you have against me and Dean?"

Masterson, or whoever he was, grabbed Clark's shirtfront and gave him a shove. "Don't call him that! He's not 'Dean,' he's 'Parker,' and you're 'Lane.' Got it?"

Both young men shrugged. "Uh, yeah, okay."

Dean heard his father's voice in his mind, saying one single word. _"De-personalizing."_

_But last names are personal, too!_

_Not as much, though._

"So, um...what do you want us to call you?"

"Oh, 'Masterson' is fine. I've mastered their sons, haven't I?" He laughed. "That's how I picked that name. I was going to master their sons." His laughter faded to a menacing growl almost immediately. "Now shut up and walk." He pointed the way and jabbed Clark in the ribs.

They stumbled forward.

'_Their sons.' This is not about us. It's about my dad and Ed. It's revenge against them._

_Do I dare talk?_

He kept silent for quite a while, his heart sinking with every step further into the woods.

_They'll never find us. Never._

Finally, in the twilight, Dean could make out a pup tent set up in a small clearing.

"Same routine as before," Masterson said. "Last time, Parker, I hurt you to keep you under control. Do I have to hurt you worse?"

"No sir." He felt ashamed to admit it, but he hurt so bad, all over, and he had no idea where he was or where he could go if he escaped.

"Good. Face down on the ground."

Dean complied, bracing himself for another agonizing blow to his back. But the knee came down much more gently, holding him in place while his hands were un-cuffed. "Now, go cuff Lane to that tree over there. Don't do anything stupid."

Dean did as he was told. _That's why he only wants last names. We're stand-ins for our fathers._

_But why did he take us instead of our fathers?_

_Why did he want to master their sons?_

He planted his back against the tree that Masterson indicated, one that was just far enough away from Clark to be out of reach. They wouldn't be able to coordinate any kind of kicking attack, or anything else.

_What good would it do to kick him, anyway, when we're cuffed to trees?_

_There's nothing we can do._

_We're going to die tonight._

###

Greg finally hung up his phone. He spent several long moments just getting his breath back, before he could even focus his eyes on the interior of the truck again. Marina may have only known Dean for a few years, but she loved him, and she loved his father, and Greg's call had hurt both of them terribly.

The cumulative pain of all three calls had turned every muscle of his body into an angry knot.

Those knots made his left leg scream.

_Pull yourself together, Parker._

"Winnie, wait," he heard Ed say. "I'm going to put this through the speakers." He looked at Greg as he hit the proper button. "She's got an update." Then, "Okay, Winnie, go."

"Okay, Team One, here's what I've got on Craig Hammond. He has been completely estranged from his family since Oliver was only five. From what I've heard, nobody was sad to see him go. He had no contact, nor did he even attempt to make contact with Oliver from that time until Oliver's death. He has a Facebook page, which is filled with what looks like the textbook rantings of a narcissist."

Greg winced. A different narcissist's face filled his mind's eye, and another gaping abyss which once had threatened to swallow him whole. But that abyss had been the threshold of a horrifying fall to his death. The one he now faced was a cavernous grief that in many ways frightened him more.

"After Oliver's death, Craig began attempting to contact the family again. I've talked to his ex-wife, Oliver's mother, and she says that he blamed the officers involved with Oliver's death, as if it was their fault that he'd had no relationship with his son."

"Splitting," Greg murmured. "Making us the bad guys. Shifting the blame off of himself."

"Exactly," Winnie continued. "He went from no apparent interest in his son, to ranting about how the cops had taken his son away from him. He also evidently made some rambling calls to his ex-wife, but then she blocked his number, so she only got a few of them. She says she never thought he would act out in any way against the officers or their families."

Greg and Ed exchanged glances. _She could have saved us so much grief! _

_But I mustn't blame her. She couldn't have known._

"Why didn't he get flagged for a psych history?" Ed asked.

"Evidently he's never actually been seen for his condition. Not all narcissists end up on the books. After all, lots of them are politicians, cops, people in positions of power."

"Yeah, copy that," Greg murmured.

"What did he really do for a living?" Ed asked. "Is there even such a thing as this magazine he was supposedly starting?"

"No, no record of it. He's a plumber."

_Not a very powerful job,_ Greg mused. _Decent money, but not many opportunities for self-aggrandizement. He must have been itching for something like this._

"No more threatening notes found, nothing revealing on Facebook?" Ed probed.

"Nothing that seems to indicate his actual plans, or even give us clues, at least not so far. Uni's are going through his house now. But on Facebook he does seem to enjoy saying that cops are stupid and can't see what's right in front of them, though. Taunting you guys, though not by name."

"Do we have a cell phone number for him?"

"Yes, and I've called it. It goes straight to voicemail."

"What kind of car does he drive?" Greg asked.

"2012 Honda. But it's still in his garage."

"Check rental companies, see if we can track down what he's driving."

"Copy that."

"Probably driving something stolen," Greg muttered.

"Maybe, but then again, he's not trying for anonymity any more. We can always hope."

Greg nodded. "Jules, how close are you to where Clark's car was found?"

"Give us five minutes, Boss."

"Spike, you're already past where most radio contact would be lost. I know our trucks provide their own signal boost...do you think it will hold if we have to go in deeper?"

"Probably, at least for a while. I don't know how far, though."

"What kind of support are we getting from Uxbridge PD?" Ed asked.

Jules replied, "They've got this main road blocked going into and out of the forest, and they're trying to cover all of the other roads, but it's a lot of territory."

Spike's voice broke in. "I see the car, Boss."

"They've got a cruiser near it, but the cop is leaving it alone," Jules added.

"Good." Greg checked his watch and swore. "We need to move faster, Ed."

Ed made the engine roar. "We're far enough out of the heart of the city, I can push it even harder."

"Good."

Spike addressed them again. "Good news, Boss! Uxbridge has assembled a team of Search and Rescue Canine teams. They are coming from several locations, but the first should be here at the car in fifteen minutes."

"That's great news, Spike," Greg replied, and tried to make himself hope a little more. But he knew how often those dogs found corpses.

Winnie's voice cut in again. "You're right about him not trying for anonymity. He rented a red Mustang, 2012, in his own name, with his own credit card." She read off the license number, and Greg jotted it down.

_Murder-suicide. No doubt about it._

Next: Chapter 7 – "Madness Unmasked"


	7. Chapter 7 - Madness Unmasked

**Chapter 7**

**Madness Unmasked**

Dean watched Masterson warming his hands over a can of Sterno. Dean would have preferred a roaring campfire, both for warming himself, and to attract attention. But of course his abductor wouldn't be that stupid.

_I'm already cold, and it's going to get a lot colder._

A little camp pot full of baked beans began warming over the Sterno now, and the smell soon made Dean's mouth water. He hadn't eaten since lunch. But hunger was the least of his discomforts right now. Thirst tormented him a thousand times more.

He looked over at Clark, and saw him staring, slack-jawed, at their captor.

_I have to do something._

"Mr. Masterson, I'm wondering why you're doing this. I can't help thinking it's got something to do with our fathers."

Masterson slowly raised himself up from his squatting position, almost as if he'd been pulled up by an invisible wire. He stalked over toward Dean, his eyes blazing. And then he just stood and stared pure hatred at him.

Dean worked some saliva into his dry mouth and tried again. "Are you angry with our fathers, sir?"

Masterson's eyes narrowed. "Parker, does the name 'Oliver Hammond' mean anything to you?"

"No sir. Is that your name?"

"No, it is NOT my name!" Masterson bellowed. Both prisoners jumped at the sudden roar of rage.

"I should have known you wouldn't know his name. Like he was nothing! They killed him like he was nothing! Like a dog!"

_They killed who?_ Dean got a sudden sinking feeling. _This whole thing is about sons..._

"Was...was Oliver your son, sir?" Despite his best efforts, his voice still came out sounding frightened.

"Was he my son? Was he my SON?" Masterson bellowed straight into Dean's face now.

_I could drop him with a well-placed kick..._

_But then what?_

"YES, he was my SON! And he was a good boy, a good boy, and they had no business killing him!" He leaned in even closer, almost nose-to-nose with Dean. "And your father was in charge! He's responsible!"

He lunged over toward Clark, who flinched and pressed himself into the tree. Masterson yelled into his face at point-blank range, "And YOUR FATHER pulled the trigger!"

He stalked back to his can of beans and stirred them.

After a few moments, Clark looked back over at Dean with huge, frightened, angry eyes.

_I bet I know what he's thinking. He always hated that his father killed people. It's so unfair that he has to die because of it._

_Focus. _

_Should I even get Masterson talking about it, or will it just make him angrier?_

_Dad often tries to get people to talk about what's bothering them...but sometimes he chooses not to say something because he's afraid to escalate the subject._

_How do I know which I should do?_

"I had to sit there, across from your father this morning," Masterson began muttering into his pot of beans. "I had to watch you two enjoy each other, knowing I would never enjoy my son like that. I had to watch him put his arm around you, and talk about supporting you through your difficulties..." He stood again and glared directly at Dean, but didn't approach him this time. "But he's not here to support you NOW, is he, Parker? That's part of what's going to torment him for the rest of his worthless life. He's gonna know, he's gonna imagine, he's gonna picture it in his mind, over and over, how you suffered and died alone, in the woods, and he couldn't do ANYTHING to help you! Just like it's gonna torture him that he sat at the table with the man who was plotting to kill his son, and he was too stupid to even see it."

He picked up his pot off of the heat and began eating directly out of it.

"You know they're probably looking for you by now," Clark said. He sounded as scared as Dean had.

Masterson (or rather, Hammond) merely shrugged. "Why should I care?"

"A guy can get in a lot of trouble for something like this," Dean offered. "But it only gets worse if you kill us."

"Shut up!" Hammond barked. "I'm not going to any prison."

"Oh yeah? How do you plan to get out of here?"

"I don't."

Dean puzzled over that for a few moments, and then an awful picture began to form in his mind.

His breath came short again.

_A dying man's got nothing to lose._

_He intends to die here, too._

_And that means there's nothing I can offer him._

###

"Okay, Boss, I've found some good, fresh tire tracks on the dirt road where Clark's car was left. I've measured the distance between the tread marks, and it matches the axle width of a 2012 Mustang. I've got good photos of the treads."

"That's great, Spike!" Ed replied. "We're about fifteen minutes out, now."

"Copy that."

"First dog team is here," Jules added. "The dog is sniffing around the car now."

"Not much light left," Greg murmured.

"Dogs won't care," Ed replied.

Greg thought about things a little while longer, and a whole new fear leaped up into his throat. "Wait a minute...I thought we were going to work to keep Hammond from knowing we were onto him! But he'll hear the dogs!"

"No," Jules replied. "They work quietly. The handler says they use postural signals and quiet whines or growls, things like that. No barking."

"Okay, good." The relief that flooded him was probably way more than the news warranted, but he clung to it.

_We'll find them. We will. And when we do..._He savored a few delicious images of bloody revenge, but then reluctantly hauled his thoughts back toward negotiation. Just in case in came to that.

"Jules had better not try to keep me from talking to Hammond," he said.

"Greg..." Ed's tone sounded like a warning.

"I'm still the city's top crisis negotiator, am I not? Didn't they create a whole new position for me, so I could come back as a negotiator without the physical requirements? They call me in for the toughest situations, Ed, and that's what this is. Our boys deserve the best I can give them."

Ed nodded. "Yes, they do, but buddy, you are not yourself right now. Do you think I haven't been watching you, listening to you? In all the years I've worked with you, I've never seen you like this...and there's a good reason for that. These are _our boys_, Greg, and there's a reason why police departments don't want even their best cops involved in situations like these with their own loved ones. It just doesn't work. As you're so fond of reminding everyone else, we're only human."

Greg scoffed. _I'm not that bad off. _"I can still negotiate!"

Ed shook his head. "Greg, I hate to say it, but I'm not convinced, buddy. And I know, I know, I probably don't look so great either, but I'm not expecting to go into this as Sierra Anything, am I? I mean...look at me."

Greg looked away instead.

"No, come on, look at me! If you were in command of Team One, would you hand me a gun and send me in to handle a life-or-death situation, the way I am right now?"

Greg didn't answer, because he knew that the truth wouldn't help his case. "You handled it just fine when Clark was buried in rubble..."

Ed shook his head so forcefully that Greg didn't bother finishing his thought. "Not the same thing at all, Greg. If I were called on to dig the boys out of rubble today, I could do that. But to rescue them from Craig Hammond, who may be armed with who-knows-what, who is dead-set on killing our boys, who has planned this thing forever...and...are you listening, buddy? To do all of that and _stay within regulations?_ Are you sure you can be that objective and professional right now?"

Greg just ground his teeth.

"Think about when Donna's husband got shot. She was a good cop, Greg, a _great_ cop! One of the best I've ever served with. But she had tunnel vision that day, sobbing at me not to stop her from killing Bill Kedrick in cold blood. She inserted herself into the line of fire, and even put us in the position of possibly having to fire on her! Remember that, Greg?"

Greg nodded, lips tightened into an angry line.

"Can you imagine us putting Team One into a nightmare situation like that...with us in the tunnel, Greg, ready to murder...wouldn't you be ready to murder Hammond in cold blood if he...if our boys...?" Ed lost his voice again.

Greg could see it now. The boys lying dead or dying in the woods, Hammond on his knees, pleading for his life...

Cold, hard rage flooded him again. _I could fill him full of bullets without a second thought._

"And that's why, after the whole incident with Donna, you sat down with the bigwigs and tightened up the regulations, so that officers don't have quite as much freedom to get involved in these things, because back then you could see it was the right thing to do..."

"You don't have to tell me what I did!" Greg snapped.

"Well, you're going to have to tighten up those regs even more, now. Because even you, _even you_ seem to have forgotten all of your reasoning. But then again, that's one of the big problems with putting family members into these sorts of situations, isn't it? Losing reason? Not being able to think straight? Our boys' chances for survival go down if we go in there as loose cannons, or even just 'not quite together,' and you know it! Think about what's best for them, not just your desire to be part of the action, Greg!"

"You'd better watch yourself! I love my son!" Greg yelled.

Ed's voice rose to match that shout. "What's that supposed to mean?" He hit the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road. "Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I don't want to kill Craig Hammond with my bare hands? Do you think I don't want him to suffer first?" He roughly backhanded Greg's shoulder. "Do you think I love my son less than you love yours? Huh? Is that what you think, Greg? Because if it is, you can get out and walk!" He slammed the gear lever into "Park."

Greg was shaking his head, looking straight ahead, avoiding Ed's eyes in an instinctive move to de-escalate him. "No, I don't think that, Eddie. I would never question your love for your son. That's not what this is about."

"Then what is this about, Greg? I'm just doing for you what you used to do for me. I'm being the voice of reason, and it's costing me everything in my gut to do it. And you come back with 'I love my son,' like that makes you different from me? Huh?" He backhanded Greg's shoulder again, then sat back in his seat, head thrown back, eyes closed, panting, struggling for self-control.

Nobody spoke for a long time.

"This isn't doing anybody any good," Greg said at last.

"No, it's not. And how much good do you think we stressed-out dads would be doing for Team One right now, huh?" Ed finally looked back at Greg, but only briefly.

His voice was much softer now. "Listen, everything I've said to you, I've been saying to me, too. It's killing me not to be there, Greg. And you were right about me, about why I kept us at Dean's car for a little while. I knew that, the more time went by, the less objective I'd be. I needed physical distance and time between me and the situation, so that I wouldn't be able to get there in time to...to cause problems for the team, right?"

His hand waved as he spoke, as if he could paint his thoughts in the air. "We wouldn't even have to lose our cool to cause problems, Greg. You know that the team wouldn't be confident of our objectivity, even if we could manage to keep it. They would still have half of their attention on us, making sure we didn't go off the deep end. Clark doesn't need half of the team's attention to be on us, and neither does Dean. Am I right? Do you think the team needs to be babysitting us?"

"I've never needed babysitting in my life. I know my job!" Greg's tone escalated again.

"So did Donna. Do you really think you and I look more pulled-together than she did after Hank was shot?" He started to get agitated again, too. "Are you kidding yourself that badly? Do we need to go through some reality testing?"

Greg didn't look back at his friend, and he didn't answer him. Right now he was half tempted to believe he hated the man.

They let a couple of minutes pass while they both cooled down again.

"Are you going to drive this thing, or do I need to?" Greg finally asked.

Ed put the truck back in gear and pulled back onto the road.

Greg stared straight ahead for a few miles, and he pictured Donna holding Kedrick at gunpoint. He thought about the things he and Eddie had said to her, and how they'd believed them at the time...and how Donna had not. He heard Donna's voice sobbing, '_I just want to kill him. I don't want to think, Ed. Shut up!' That's what she said._

"I'm sorry, buddy. Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm not fit for duty right now, and I'm not objective enough to realize it." He finally turned to look at Ed. "And you're also right that you're doing for me what I used to do...being the voice of reason. I'm not used to the role-reversal, buddy."

Ed just nodded.

Silence.

"So...how did you manage to step into this role, anyway? I mean, you _do_ love your son with all your heart, so help me understand what you're doing with that love right now that lets you stay reasonable. Because whatever you're doing, I need a dose of it."

Ed didn't answer for a while, but Greg could see that his silence didn't come from resentment. Ed was really struggling with something.

When he finally answered, his voice sounded quiet and strained. "I know how it feels to kill someone you care about in order to protect someone you despise, Greg."

He finally turned to briefly look at Greg. "Killing May Dalton was by the book, and it nearly destroyed me. I don't want anyone else on our team to face the agony of a by-the-book shooting to protect a lowlife from a good person who lost his head. I protected May's father from her by killing her, and it nearly killed me, because he was worthless, and she was..." His voice broke, and he couldn't continue.

Greg thought his heart would break for his friend. He reached to lay a hand on Ed's shoulder, and his touch was not refused or resented. "She was a beautiful person, Eddie."

"Yeah, she was. She was. I killed beauty to protect scum, because that's what the law required me to do. That was my _duty_." Once again, that word came out sounding like a curse, and this time it made sense to Greg.

"And I will suffer from that decision for the rest of my life," Ed continued through clenched teeth, with an intensity that trembled from being forced into a near-whisper. "I can't put anyone on our team in that position again, Greg. And what would I do if I saw them training their guns on you, because they had to protect Hammond from you, huh? They might have to shoot _you, _and if you think that wouldn't make me totally lose my mind, on top of everything else...! I don't know what I'd do, what I'd be capable of. I can see me drawing on the team if they drew on you. Can you imagine the chaos we could create, when our boys need the team to take control?_"_

He scraped his sleeve across his face. "Or maybe it would be the other way around. Maybe you'd have to watch them shoot me. Or maybe we'd both have to get shot, who knows? And what would happen to the people who had to do that to us, Greg?"

Ed shook his head and wiped his face again. "You don't know. You think you can imagine it, but you can't. To kill goodness to protect scum...no, you can't imagine it."

He nailed Greg with his piercing eyes. "Who do you want to shoot you, Greg? Who do you want to have to live with that agony? Spike? Jules? Leah?"

Greg patted his shoulder, completely unable to speak.

"And if our boys were only hurt, not dead, and they had to witness that...to witness us being shot by our own team?" Ed choked out. "Or what if the team couldn't do it? What if they couldn't? Then what would happen to the whole team when the law came down on them for letting us murder Hammond? What would it do to our boys to see us commit murder?"

"Okay, okay, buddy, you don't have to convince me anymore. I'm with you. I'm with you."

Ed put a hand on Greg's shoulder now, too, and they rode that way for a while.

"And there's another thing, Greg. If anything were to go wrong, and our boys were to die while we were on scene..." His voice gave out, and he needed several moments to bring it back enough to choke his words out. "If that happened, how would we live with it, Greg? Our involvement...how would we cope with the guilt, the regret, the second-guessing, the memories..."

He clearly couldn't go on.

Silence settled over them for a while, but it was far from peaceful.

When Greg finally spoke up, he felt no remaining anger. "I can think of only one thing you haven't considered, Ed. We're the reason they're in this mess. We're the ones Hammond is really mad at. Maybe we could get his attention off the boys and onto us."

"I think you've got it backwards. If this is revenge, he might want nothing more than to watch us watch our kids die." Ed's voice cracked again, and he paused for a few moments. "The sight of us could make him do it, Greg. He might even be waiting for us to show up, so he can have the pleasure of shooting our kids in front of us. Remember? We already talked about that."

Greg nodded, but couldn't answer. _I guess I'm really not thinking straight._

Silence reigned again for a while.

When Ed spoke again, his voice was still broken. "And buddy, we can NOT let ourselves think that we're the reason our boys are in this mess. That's what Hammond wants us to think. That's part of the revenge, part of the torture. He wants us blaming ourselves. But this is ALL on him, one hundred percent! It's HIS fault, and nobody else's."

Greg only nodded. He turned his face to the window, though the dusk hardly admitted any worthwhile viewing. _He's right, and I respect him for it, but I hate that he's right. I hate that I can't be what my son needs me to be right now! I hate all of this!_

Jules' voice in his headset barely registered in his brain. "The dogs have been casting around for a scent. They clearly get one in the areas we've already identified, but no trail to follow. That's consistent with the theory that they left in Hammond's mustang."

Greg's heart sank even further. _So the dogs won't do us any good, will they?_

_Ed's right. I do want to kill Craig Hammond, justifiably or not._

He felt like he could be sick, but he wrapped his arms around his stomach and stared out the window instead.

###

Dean wracked his brain, searching for the name Oliver Hammond. He couldn't come up with anything.

He didn't know the names of most of Team One's kills, come to think of it, though he'd heard the names "May Dalton" and "Harold Beamer" often enough to be able to call them easily to mind.

_Ed usually pulls the trigger. I wonder if Clark knows the name._ He looked over at his friend again, and this time Clark looked back.

"_Oliver Hammond?" _Dean silently mouthed, as clearly as he could.

Clark just shrugged, his expression regretful.

Dean looked back down at the ground. For some reason, he felt he really should know that name.

_Oliver. Oliver. Oliver Hammond. I don't know. _

_I don't know. _

_What good would it do if I figured it out?_

"I'm still trying to decide the best way to finish you guys off," Hammond said, his tone weirdly conversational. "Of course, if they show up, I'll just shoot you and get it over with. But I've been thinking about torching you. That could be fun to watch."

He picked up a can of gasoline and shook it to show just how full it was.

Dean felt terror invading every cell of his body. _Please no, anything but that, please!_ Even out of the corner of his eye he could see Clark's matching horror.

_Maybe the best I can do is influence that decision. Make our deaths as painless as possible._

"I'm guessing they shot Oliver, right?"

"Yeah, right in the head. Blew his brains out."

Dean saw Clark's whole body droop. He'd always felt horror, not just at the fact that his father killed people, but also at the way he did it.

"Then..." Dean paused and swallowed hard. Surely it was madness to say such a thing. But he looked again at the gas can and made up his mind. "Then shooting would seem like poetic justice, right?"

"I'm glad you see my point," Hammond replied coldly.

Clark just stared at Dean, with his mouth hanging open.

Dean glanced back over at their captor, but his attention was elsewhere, so he mouthed to Clark, "I don't want to burn."

Clark just looked nauseated. He turned his face away.

But Clark's shock soon forced Dean to regret his words, and so he decided on a different tack.

"But Mr. Hammond, this won't give you any relief. It won't bring your son back. All it will do is hurt innocent people. After all, there are more people who love us than just our dads. You're going to hurt our moms, and my step-parents too. All of our relatives, who never did you any harm."

"Ollie's death hurt all of his relatives too, did you ever think of THAT?" Hammond shouted, and stomped about halfway over towards Dean.

Dean's whole brain reeled. _'Ollie!' That's a name I know. Ollie tried to kill Marina. He's the reason Dad met her._

_I can't mention her to Hammond. He might delay his suicide and go after her._

A new thought gripped him with cold terror. _What if he already has?_ Suddenly he could see his father sobbing over Marina's body, only to have to grieve over his son's remains later, too.

His dad's torment threatened to completely undo him, so he forced his mind away from what he could not manage.

He stammered, "I...I just can't see how spreading so much pain around could possibly make anything better! How do you figure it will do that?"

"Like you said, poetic justice."

Dean felt Clark's gaze directed back at him. It burned into him, accusing him, or so it seemed.

Dean let his knees give way, and he lowered himself to sit against the tree. He put his head between his knees. _I just wrote our death warrants. I deserve to die now. What an idiot! What a stupid, stupid idiot!_

His mind went blank, and maybe that was a good thing. _A lot of good all of my thinking has done me! _

_I thought us right into getting our brains blown out._

_Won't have anything left to think stupid thoughts with after that._

###

"Okay," Spike updated them, "I can see that the Mustang drove south on this dirt road and met Clark's car. It appears to have been parked just around that curve. Then it looks like it went back onto the main paved road. Judging by the angle of the tire tracks at the last, I'd say they went east."

"Winnie, is Uxbridge hearing everything?" Greg asked.

"Yes, Sarge. I have them completely tied in, though I'm filtering out their audio to keep your traffic down. But I'm monitoring it for anything important to us."

"Good."

Spike resumed his commentary. "It also looks like there may have been a scuffle a little ways north of Clark's car, like maybe this is where the confrontation occurred. The tracks are partially scuffed out here. Lots of footprints. I'm being careful not to mess those up, don't worry."

"I know you are, Spike."

"What's this?" Jules asked.

"What have you got?" Ed, Greg, and Spike all asked together.

"Something shiny...Boss, it's a cell phone, a little way off the path, with its battery lying next to it. I'm going to send you a photo."

"No, you can't," Spike reminded her. "We've got boosted radio, but not data. Just describe it to him."

"Oh yeah, right." Jules described the phone and its rubberized skin, which bore a distinctive pattern.

"That's Dean's," Greg said, his mouth feeling like cotton again.

"Has Clark's phone turned up?" Ed asked.

"No, not yet."

"Maybe he managed to hide it on his person."

"We can hope...but with no radio boost like we've got, and no GPS in these woods, I'm not sure what good that would do."

"Maybe they left the woods, Greg. We're just assuming they were still in here when the uni's closed off the main road. And they can probably get out via side roads, if they wind around enough."

Winnie replied to that. "Uxbridge says they have all main arteries in and out of the forest closed off, but there certainly are side roads that they could possibly use. Still, they'd have to hit the main roads eventually. There's a good chance they're still in there."

"Guys, ask the uni who found Clark's car if the engine was still warm when he found it."

Jules repeated the question, and then repeated the officer's answer into her mic. "'Just barely,' he said."

Ed sighed deeply.

Greg checked his phone. "GPS has cut out. We must be really close to you now."

"Yeah, you must be."

"Oh yeah, I can see the sky lit up with your reds and blues up ahead, around a bend or two."

"Good."

At last they pulled up beside their colleagues. Ed jumped out and ran toward Clark's car. It sat completely opened up, as Dean's had been.

_Looks like they've dusted it._ "Winnie, what have you heard about prints on Clark's car?"

"Let me check into that."

Ed's pace slowed, faltered, stopped.

Greg could see, even from his position, how Ed's breathing had changed.

_I know just how he feels._

"Boss, Hammond's prints were all over Clark's car and its contents," Winnie reported.

"Copy that," Ed replied, sounding choked.

Jules walked up beside Ed and put an arm around him. He draped an arm across her shoulders, and the other arm wiped at his face. And then his posture firmed up as he took command of himself again. "All right, what have we got, and what's our next move?"

_Too bad your plan didn't work, Eddie. You're in the thick of it after all._

###

Clark stared at Dean, and then at Hammond, and back again. Finally his gaze rested on his friend, who sat motionless at the base of his tree.

_I get what he was trying to do. But man, that was stupid._

_But at least he tried something!_

Clark cleared his throat, amazed at how much courage he needed to work up just to speak.

"Hey, uh...as I understand it, Ollie was trying to kill a woman in cold blood, at her office, am I right? Am I thinking of the right case?"

Hammond got up and walked closer to Clark. "The killer's son speaks at last. Yes, you have the right case. I thought you didn't know the name."

"I didn't, until you said 'Ollie' instead of 'Oliver.' Then I knew."

"Hmph."

Clark swallowed, though it was purely a nervous motion. His mouth was too dry to work up anything worth swallowing.

"So, anyway, it seems to me that the cops had no choice, if Ollie was about to shoot a woman in cold blood."

"In cold blood? In COLD BLOOD?" Rage filled Hammond's face again, and he walked closer.

Clark tried to sink into the tree again.

"He was nothing but kind to her, and she fired him, and she broke his heart! She got what was coming to her."

Clark could barely hear his own voice. "A woman's got a right to say 'no' to a guy, you know."

Hammond swore. "You've bought that line because this politically correct society has brainwashed you. But you're young. Give it a few more years, give it a few more women treating you like the dirt that they scrape off the bottom of their fancy little shoes, and you'll understand what they really deserve." As soon as those words had left his mouth, a wicked grin spread across his face. "Of course, you're never going to get the chance, are you? No more women for you! You got a girlfriend, Lane?"

Clark just turned his face away, his gut tied in a knot. He and his girlfriend had just agreed to part ways amicably, but this would still devastate her.

Hammond jabbed his finger repeatedly into Clark's chest. "The newspapers printed the love poem that he wrote to her. It was a thing of beauty! And she still rejected him!"

"That didn't give him the right to kill her," Clark answered, inexplicably feeling a little braver.

"Yes it did!" Hammond bellowed. "And your stupid fathers, both of them, should have let him give her what she deserved! It was none of their business! None at all!"

"It's what they're paid to do, because we live in a society that protects innocent people," Clark replied, his voice stronger now. "And believe me, my father takes no pleasure in killing. It tears him up inside!"

"Oh, my heart just bleeds for him," Hammond sneered. "What about MY insides, huh?" He jabbed his finger into his own chest now. "Does anybody care about those?"

"Look...I'm sorry for your loss, I really am! But I just don't see how killing two more people, and breaking a whole lot of hearts, is going to make this world a better place!" Clark glanced over at Dean, and saw that his friend had lifted his head and was watching him.

The long index finger jabbed Clark's chest again. "I wouldn't care if I had to kill a million innocent people to hurt your father!" he shouted.

"Then doesn't that make you worse than what you think they are?" Clark challenged. He was starting to feel more angry than scared, and he liked the strength it gave him.

Hammond just stared at him. Motionless. Eyes burning holes in him.

And then suddenly his fist slammed into Clark's gut, doubling him over, buckling his knees. He sank down to a squat, struggling to catch his breath.

"Next time I want your opinion, Lane, I'll ask for it. But don't hold your breath." Hammond stalked away, back to his little campstool by his little Sterno fire.

He turned on an LED lantern against the growing darkness, and doused his Sterno can. He even went so far as to dig a little hole and bury it.

Then he picked up the gas can, shook it, and turned to glare at the boys again.

Both boys stood quickly, even though the effort only increased Clark's nausea from the punch he'd received.

_Who can just sit there and be burned up?_

His nostrils flared as his nausea increased, fueled more by fear than pain, now. He strained against the cuffs, but all that accomplished was a sharp pain in his wrists.

_Standing up to burn won't hurt any less._

Next: Chapter 8 – "Draw One More Breath"


	8. Chapter 8 - Draw One More Breath

**Chapter 8**

**Draw One More Breath**

By now, Team One all carried night vision goggles. They carried portable lights, too, but used those only when absolutely necessary.

Full night had fallen.

They'd already stopped at several side roads, searching for recent tire tracks that matched the width of the Mustang's axle, and matched its tread marks.

Nothing so far. Spike got up from checking this last road, and sprinted back to his truck. He didn't bother reporting this time. No news was bad news, and everyone knew it.

They moved ahead.

They'd worked out a system in which Spike and Jules' truck checked all dirt roads on the north side of the main road, and Greg and Ed's truck checked out the ones on the south. The third truck, carrying Leah, LeClerc, and Danby, stood guard over the officers who stooped vulnerably to inspect the ground. And behind all of that, two ambulances crept along in quiet readiness.

One dog team sat in the back of Jules' truck, another rode in Ed and Greg's truck, and a third was making the trip more slowly, walking behind the motorized convoy, in case anyone had gotten out of Hammond's car and fled on foot. Uxbridge cops protected that team.

Greg was driving now, to free Ed for all of the in-and-out work that would have killed Greg's leg. He was already in a lot of pain, just from prolonged, intense tension.

Every time Ed got out, the dog team did, too. Their sniffing around was incredibly valuable, Greg knew, but he chafed at the time it took.

Periodically they heard radio updates from a team of Uxbridge officers who were walking in the woods near Clark's stranded car, in case the tire tracks had been a red herring. So far, they'd found nothing.

All in all, they had a good multi-team strategy. But Greg felt what little hope he had draining away with every dead-end offroad they checked.

_I didn't think to tell our families that we'd be out of phone range. This has got to be sheer torture for all of them. At least I get to try to do something about it._

_Nothing's worse than sitting home, helpless._

Sometimes a sort of numb boredom set in. He drove, he stopped, he waited, he drove some more. He could shut his mind down and not feel anything at those times.

But then his insides would ricochet back to near panic, picturing the threatening note, the dusted cars, the abandoned telephone, the signs of a scuffle, the time passing too quickly on the clock, and even Ollie's bloodied body on the floor of Paradigm Offices. Not to mention the grisly bits of Ollie's cranium, and its former contents, sprayed on Marina's face, hair, and clothes.

Wild and improbable "could-haves" and "should-haves" flooded through his mind at those times, wondering how Ollie's death could have been avoided...though he knew it couldn't have been.

And then he'd picture himself finding the boys, in whatever shape they might be in. Every possible outcome played out in his mind, and sometimes he imagined himself driven to helpless grief...but other times he saw himself lost in murderous rage. Then his whole conversation with Ed would replay in his mind, and the incident with Donna, and then his thoughts would dissolve into a helpless jumble again, and he'd drop back into mindlessness. Drive, wait, drive some more.

They'd covered several agonizingly slow miles when the silence was finally shattered.

"I found the mustang's tracks!" Spike called out. "The right axle width, and the same tread as the one near Clark's car. Team One, head north. Dog team number three, please drive to meet us at our turnoff." He specified the mile marker, and the officer accompanying the dog team acknowledged.

By prearrangement, all of the vehicles doused their headlights, the only lights they'd been using. The drivers donned night vision goggles.

This was agonizingly slow, painstaking work. Every time a little trail appeared, even if it looked like a deer path, someone would have to get out and check for the tread marks. The marks didn't go deep enough to see from inside the truck, at least not without headlights.

Greg felt like another hour was lopped off of his son's life every time they stopped.

Or sometimes he felt like they were just creeping along to where they'd find the bodies.

Or he'd convince himself that the boys would never be found.

The thoughts all tasted like bile. Only rarely did he feel hopeful, and it never lasted long.

No one spoke.

###

Dean had never really thought about what terror tasted like before.

But now he knew.

Terror tasted like gasoline.

His clothes clung to him, soaked with terror. His hair hung down, drenched with it. His skin wore a sheen of it.

Raw, unprocessed, unrefined.

Terror.

He sobbed.

He shook violently. It had nothing to do with the cold.

His head throbbed and pounded from the fumes that engulfed him, and he could already feel his thoughts getting fuzzy and druggish.

He'd tried begging, but the eyes which had stared back at him seemed to have no soul behind them. Hammond had emptied the entire can over Dean, and then, to his horror, he'd gone and fetched a second can.

Clark was being drenched now, too, and he was still pleading. Sobbing. Coughing when his pleas allowed gasoline into his mouth.

Hammond shook the empty second can over Clark's head, as if another single drop could make the immolation more complete. Then he stepped back to admire his work.

"Picture it, Parker! Picture it, Lane! Your fathers falling on their knees in your ashes, sobbing over your bones...they won't even be sure they _are_ your bones, unless you've got good dental records or something." He grinned. "But they'll know. In their guts, they'll know."

He pulled a lighter out of his pocket.

Fresh sobs and pleas poured out of the boys' throats.

"Here's the thing, though, boys. I had originally planned to just shoot myself right after killing you, but then I'd miss the fun! I'd miss your fathers' grieving. I can hide out here, wait until they find me, and then shoot myself. Why not enjoy the show?"

He stood there, admiring the terror he'd caused. "This is a pretty good show all by itself," he mused. "I'm loving every minute of this, boys!"

He walked closer to Dean, smiling wickedly. He waved the lighter in front of his face, lunged at him with it, cackled when he flinched away. "All it would take is a flick of my thumb..."

Then he walked over to Clark and tormented him the same way.

"I don't know, boys...maybe I'll wait until it's fully dark. You'll make a brighter-looking fire that way!"

For all the daylight that remained, Hammond kept them in a horror of suspense; saying he'd changed his mind, lunging at them with the lighter, talking in vivid details of what it must be like to be consumed by fire.

And, with every passing minute, the darkness grew nearer, and the gasoline fumes poisoned Dean's brain even more.

Dean hardly knew that he was shaking anymore. It had become a part of who he was, of who he would be until the flames took him.

Hammond became a disembodied, leering face, eerily distorted by the lantern light.

Dean decided it would be easier just to hide inside himself. To keep his eyes closed. To tune out his ears, his terror, everything but the horrible odor of gasoline. That could never be ignored.

He pictured beautiful scenes, loved faces. He spoke to those faces, apologized, hugged loved ones close, clung to them...until he suddenly became afraid that they would burn with him, too.

And darkness fell.

###

"They turned down this trail!" Spike hissed. "But it gets pretty close up ahead. We'll have to leave the trucks here and go on foot."

Everybody got out quickly, closing truck doors as quietly as possible.

Greg's heart pounded in his chest. "Nobody wait for me," he whispered into his mic. "I'll just slow you down. Get to our boys as fast as you can."

Even though he had his cane, he hobbled far more slowly than usual, what with the darkness, the uneven ground, and a fatigue that radiated from his soul into every cell of his body. But he pushed himself. Oh, how he pushed himself.

The team quickly left him behind. Only Eddie hung back with him to offer protection...and, no doubt, to keep himself out of Team One's way.

_I have to admire his restraint. He's able-bodied. He could be there. _

_But he's right. The boys have a better chance if we aren't throwing the team off their rhythm._

"Thank you, Eddie," Greg whispered.

Ed draped an arm across his shoulders and gave him a quick squeeze. "You're welcome, buddy. Let's just hope..."

"Yeah."

_We could already be too late._

_What are we going to see up ahead?_

_Just walk, Parker. Just walk._

The breeze, which had been striking his back, now turned to meet his face.

Suddenly new whispers came through his headset, sounding urgent. "I smell gasoline, really strong! We need fire extinguishers, now!" He could already hear footsteps running back towards him. In a few moments, officers rushed past him.

_Gasoline?_ Even as he questioned it, the odor wafted to him as well, growing stronger by the second.

He stood frozen, wondering how he could do the most good. But it quickly became obvious that he should just press forward. Truck doors slammed behind him, and feet thudded back toward him. They'd already gotten the extinguishers.

Soon they'd rushed all the way out of sight, ahead into whatever horror lay waiting.

Greg just pressed forward, stumbling over rocks and bumps and pine cones, and other forms of forest detritus. Ed stayed close, catching hold of him whenever he needed help keeping his balance.

Occasional low branches forced him to duck out of the way.

_Go, go, go, Parker. Just go._

A man's voice, distant and menacing, struck his ears. He couldn't make out the words, but still somehow they chilled him.

Beside him, Ed swore softly.

Greg stumbled onward.

###

Neither Dean nor Clark had spoken for a while now, though they each moaned. Dean was in a hidden place, somewhere deep inside himself that, until today, he'd never known existed. Seeing nothing. Feeling nothing...at least nothing that felt real.

Though Dean didn't know it, Clark was in the same state himself. Pure shock and poisonous fumigation. Shaking with terror, and with the cold. No words, only moans.

Hammond's words hit him, but they bounced off into the distance. He knew what they said, what they meant, but somehow they only threatened his body. And he was far, far away from his body.

"You'd better hope those weren't cops I heard! If they were, FWOOSH! Up you go like a Roman Candle!"

###

Greg heard the most horrific words he'd ever heard in his life.

"You'd better hope those weren't cops I heard! If they were, FWOOSH! Up you go like a Roman Candle!"

Nearly dizzy from the gasoline fumes he'd breathed, Greg had no doubt that the threat of immolation was very real. But his body simply could not move any faster.

Every step came with a sob, now.

Ed grabbed one of his arms and pulled Greg's exhausted body to a halt. "We have to stop here, Greg."

"No, no, not yet!" Greg sobbed.

"The team is dealing with it. We need to stay here."

"But we can't even see them from here!" Greg pleaded.

Ed said nothing, and it dawned on Greg that that was his point.

_In case the boys go up in flames._

_He doesn't want us to see our sons go up in flames._

Suddenly he couldn't have moved even if he'd been allowed to. He sank down with a sob to sit on the cold ground, pulling Ed down with him. They held onto each other, eyes glued on the bend in the path as if it could tell them what was happening beyond it.

Their posture called to mind a different time of agony, when Greg had knelt beside Spike to comfort him after Lew...

_No, no, please no._

_This would be so much worse..._.

Chaotic shouting broke out. "Freeze!" and "Police!" and "SRU!" and "Put the lighter down!" And over it all, the hissing of the fire extinguishers. Four of them, he knew. Maybe more. One from each police vehicle, at least, and maybe from the ambulances as well. But he couldn't help wondering if even that many would be enough, with the gas fumes so thick he could almost cut them.

A single shot rang out, and Greg nearly screamed. The spark of that shot could have touched off an inferno. And where had the bullet gone?

But a moment later he heard Jules' voice. "Subject has committed suicide." And then, "Dean! Clark!"

Greg struggled to his feet, with a great deal of help from Ed. They stumbled forward, Greg almost blind with pain, exhaustion, and shock.

"Dean!" he yelled. "Dean!"

Spike's voice replied, "I've got him, Sarge. He's unharmed, but appears to be in shock."

"And I've got Clark," Jules added. "Same as Dean. He'll be okay."

"Dean..." Greg could hardly register the good news. He just pressed forward, aware that he was leaning much more on Ed than on his cane.

"They're gonna be okay," Ed panted. "They're gonna be okay." He wiped at his eyes, then grabbed Greg's arm again.

_Gotta get my arms around that boy. Gotta hold that boy, gotta see him with my own eyes..._ This became almost a mantra powering Greg's every step.

They rounded a curve, and gasped at the scene that opened before them.

"Go, Eddie, I'm good from here. Go to your boy!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, go, go!"

Ed ran, and Greg hobbled on.

###

Shouting struck Dean, accompanied by a cold wetness, a new sensation that shocked him back into his body with a terrified scream. His overwrought nerves knew only one way to interpret it.

It had to be fire.

It didn't hurt, not yet, but that didn't seem to matter. This was the end. Every muscle tensed itself against the inevitable.

More shouting assaulted his senses. And then, a gunshot.

He opened his eyes just a crack, and it looked like snow around him. He closed them again.

He thought he felt arms around him. Thought he heard familiar voices. But of course that couldn't be real.

But there was Ed's voice, calling out Clark's name. Was Clark back in City Hall?

Dean opened his eyes again, needing to know.

Spike's face swam in front of him. "Hey, buddy, thanks for opening your eyes. Are you okay? Your dad's right behind us, buddy. He'll be here in a second."

"Spike?" His voice croaked.

"Yeah, kiddo, looks like we got here just in time."

"What...is it snowing?"

"No, that's fire retardant. Just keepin' you safe, Buddy."

"Fire!" Dean sat up, his body charged with terror. To his surprise, his arms moved freely in front of him.

"No, Dean, it's okay!" Spike held his shoulders with gentle firmness. His eyes shone with reassurance. "There isn't any fire, and there isn't going to be."

And then his father's voice called out to him. He turned to see that familiar form, lurching like it did when it could hardly go on...only far worse than he'd ever seen it.

"Dean, son!" His father stumbled and went down, then simply dragged himself forward the few remaining yards to where Dean sat. Officers ran to him, offering to help, but he ignored them.

Dad's embrace felt like a blanket, warm and safe. Dean clung to him like an infant with its mother.

But his father's sobs broke out only stronger, until they wracked his body. They reminded Dean of the scenes he'd imagined, scenes of his father discovering his corpse.

"Dad, I'm okay, please, Dad, I'm okay. Don't cry, please, Dad!" He took his father's face in his hands and looked into his eyes. And that simple act did more to anchor him in the reality of the moment than anything that had gone before.

"I know, I know, son. I know. I just...oh son..." His dad just drew him close again, and for several moments no more words were spoken.

Dean became vaguely aware that a similar reunion was happening behind him. There, too, were sobs, and suddenly he remembered the scenes of paternal grief he'd imagined before. It made him afraid for his friend.

"Clark?" He turned, straining to see.

"He's okay, buddy. He's okay." His father seemed to want to restrain him, but he turned anyway.

Clark and his father clung to each other as Dean and his dad were doing.

"He's okay, buddy."

A stranger showed up beside Dean. "I'm sorry, guys, but I really have to examine this young man."

"Yeah, yeah, okay." His father yielded to the paramedic.

"I'm sorry about the coldness," the paramedic said, "but we have to wash the gasoline and other chemicals off of you." He raised a jug over Dean's head. "It's just water, okay?"

Dean panicked. He leaped to his feet, screaming. "No, no, don't pour that on me, no!"

Spike jumped in from somewhere and wrapped his arms around him. His father grabbed his leg at the same time, but both men seemed kind in their firmness. "It's okay, Dean, it's okay. It's only water. Believe me, it's only water, son. No one's going to hurt you." The words and voices all mixed together into a jumble, but they made sense, and he finally allowed the pouring.

But he shook, and it wasn't just because of the cold.

"I'm so sorry," the paramedic continued, looking both kind and determined. Dean could notice that now, with his mind clearing. Just having fewer gas fumes to inhale, plus the shock of the dousing, and his father's reassuring presence, helped him think better.

Another jug was lifted, this time over his friend, and also with copious explanations and encouragement. He heard Clark scream anyway, and heard Ed trying to comfort him.

"Okay, buddy," Dean's paramedic drew his attention back to his own little huddle. "Let's get those clothes off of you, rinse you down again, and get you into a blanket. Is that okay?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, yeah, okay."

He began to feel sheepish as his clothes were stripped off. He couldn't help casting an anxious look around to see if Jules or Leah were anywhere nearby. He spotted them, with their backs turned to him, over by...

...by Hammond's body.

The sight made time stand still. He forgot to even help with the undressing, but was vaguely aware that his father was helping the paramedic get it done faster.

_I'm so cold!_

"Okay, Dean, are you ready? It's gonna be cold, but it's only water. Are you okay with me pouring it?"

"Yeah, okay." He still couldn't take his eyes off of Hammond.

More water doused him, shocking his breath out of him with a gasp. But despite its coldness, he welcomed it. He wanted that gasoline off of him _now_.

Oddly, his head was beginning to throb again, as it had when the gas had first been poured on him. _Maybe I'd just been too drugged by it to notice it for a while._ That lucid thought slipped away from him as quickly as it had come.

"Okay, Dean, that's enough water for now."

"No, I'm really thirsty."

"Okay, buddy, we'll take care of that, too. But let's get this blanket around you. Here you go..."

A delicious warmth spread over Dean. He looked again at Clark, and saw that he, too, was getting wrapped in a blanket. And this time, he looked over at Dean.

And smiled a little.

Dean heard rustling beside him, and turned to see Spike helping his father to stand up. And then he saw stretchers arriving in the clearing.

"Yep," the paramedic said, following his gaze. "One of those is for you. You get to ride out of here in style. Come on, let's walk over that way a little. I want to get you away from the fumes."

"But...what about my dad? He needs help, too."

"I'll be okay, son."

"Hey, sir, we've got a wheelchair folded up in the ambulance. I'd be happy to have it brought." The paramedic smiled at Dean's father.

His father thought about that for a moment, and then nodded.

"I'll get it if you like, so you can keep working with Dean here," Spike offered.

"Sure, go for it."

Spike sprinted away.

The paramedic helped Dean get himself onto the stretcher and lie down on it. "I'm just going to start an IV now, okay, buddy? You're a bit dehydrated, and you've been through a lot...it's just the safest thing to do."

"Okay, whatever." Dean looked around. "Dad?"

"Right here, son. I'm not leaving you."

The paramedic slipped the needle in, causing a minimum of pain. "You're doing fine, buddy, you're doing fine."

Dean began to feel exhaustion overtaking him again. The stretcher felt insanely comfortable, compared to how he'd spent the last several hours.

His father stroked his hair.

"All right, Boss." Spike's voice came from somewhere around Dean's head, but Dean didn't turn to see him. "Here's your chariot. And I picked up your cane from back there, where you fell..."

"Thanks so much, Spikey. When I thought about walking all that way back..."

"My pleasure."

His father sat down with a heavy sigh, and then immediately put his hand back on Dean's head. He seemed to need the touch.

_I think I do, too._

###

Greg felt a little guilty about Spike's struggle to push the wheelchair over the rough terrain. But the paramedic soon offered wise advice. "Hey, turn the chair around backwards and pull it, big wheels first. Much easier."

So, Greg got a backwards ride out of the clearing. He could tell that the going really was much easier for Spike now, but he couldn't say he liked the view.

_Our boys almost died there._

He sighed with relief when they rounded a bend and the clearing disappeared from sight.

Ed walked beside Clark's stretcher several yards away. The big man was still wiping at his eyes sometimes.

But so was Greg, so that was no surprise.

Ed couldn't take his hand off of his son, just as Greg also could not bear to do. But Greg had to content himself with holding Dean's foot. The boy's nearest hand was taken up with the IV, and his foot was the next most comfortable thing to grab.

"Dad?"

"What, son?"

"Was I there for days?"

"Days? No, just hours. But I'm not surprised it felt like days to you. It sure did to me, too."

"I feel so weird," he murmured. "I can't hold onto my thoughts. I can grab them for a second, but then they slip away again."

"You breathed a lot of fumes, son. And you've suffered a lot. It's going to be a while before you feel like yourself again."

Silence fell for a few moments.

"Dad?"

"Right here, son."

"You didn't leave?"

"No, I won't leave you, son."

Silence again.

"Dad?'

"Yeah, Dean."

"Is Clark okay?"

"Yeah, as okay as you are."

After countless reassurances, many of them identical to ones that had gone before, they finally arrived at the ambulances. Greg stood so that Spike could stow the wheelchair. His leg screamed at him, and he felt renewed gratitude for the luxury of being pulled back here.

_It would have taken me until tomorrow if I'd had to walk._ He patted Spike's back. "Thanks, buddy."

"My pleasure."

The paramedics hoisted Dean's stretcher into the ambulance, and then they helped pull and push Greg in as well. He sat where they told him to sit, near Dean's head, and once again began to stroke his son's hair.

More medical stuff happened, but he tuned it out.

They drove, and after a little while Greg's phone went crazy. He pulled it out and saw notifications for many, many missed calls and texts.

"A lot of people are going to be awfully glad to hear you're okay, buddy." He dialed his ex-wife's number first, feeling suddenly weepy again. He clamped down on the emotion as much as he could.

"Glen? Joanne? Honey, I've got him. He's going to be okay."

He felt a little weird after he realized he'd used a term of endearment with Joanne. _Nothing I can do about it now._

Joanne and Glen both broke down and sobbed with relief. And Greg had to allow more of his own tears to escape as well.

Dean placed a comforting hand on his arm, and then Greg was done in.

Next: DO NOT MISS Chapter 9 – "Restoration"


	9. Chapter 9 - Restoration

**Chapter 9**

**Restoration**

"Clark, honey, I wish you'd change your mind. I wish you'd come stay with us for a couple of days, just until you're sure you're all right." His mom spoke her words into his chest as she hugged him.

He pressed her away from him, but gently, and kept his hands on her shoulders as he met her gaze. "No, Mom, I'm fine. If I weren't all right, they wouldn't have released me from the hospital after just one night, would they?"

"There are different kinds of recovery, son, and hospitals don't help with all of them," his father chimed in. "This thing is going to hit you hard soon... a lot harder than it already has."

"I know, but guys...I really need to be alone. That's how I process these things, you know that. Alone, preferably with my piano and my cello..." he turned and gestured toward the instruments which had moved into his apartment back when he did. "I'll be okay, and I'll come by when I need to, I promise."

His father nodded, clearly willing to let him make up his own mind. But his mother didn't seem so sure.

Fortunately, his dad took his mom in hand and gently steered her toward the door. "Honey, he's a big boy, he can take care of himself now."

She grimaced, but didn't argue. "Just one more hug, okay, baby?"

He hugged her, and then accepted an embrace from his father, too.

_I love you guys, but if you don't leave now, I might explode..._

He made no attempt to even figure out how he was feeling. He only believed those feelings, without questioning them.

_Leave me alone, everybody. Please. Nothing personal. Please._

He went and stood by his window and watched his parents walk hand-in-hand toward their car. His stomach knotted a little more when he saw his mom start to cry again, and his dad comforting her.

_I can't handle their pain right now._ But for some reason, he couldn't look away, either.

And then, when they drove away, he suddenly felt his solitude as a dreadful thing. He needed it, but he needed to run from it, too.

He retreated to his bedroom, turned on his favorite playlist of soft-classical songs to sleep by, and sank into oblivion for several hours.

###

"Are you sure you guys don't mind me hanging out here?" Dean asked, though he knew the answer already.

"It's your bedroom, Dean. It always will be, whenever you want it. That's why I had you leave a pair of pajamas and some clothes here, just for times like this." His dad grimaced. "Well, not that I ever expected times like _this..._"

Dean shook his head with a small smile.

Dad put his hands on Dean's shoulders, then brought up a hand to cup his face. "Besides, Dean, I can't think of a better birthday present than having you here." He pulled Dean in for a hug, the umpteenth today, and probably the third just since he and Clark had been discharged from the hospital an hour ago.

Dean didn't mind a bit. "Happy birthday, Dad."

Their hug was interrupted by Dean's phone, which buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out. "Hi, Mom." It was the umpteenth call from Texas, today, too.

He didn't mind that, either, though he was starting to feel a little harried.

"Dean, your dad and I have managed to get last-minute plane tickets. We'll be up there tonight."

Dean had long-since ceased to feel any cognitive dissonance from having two men called "Dad" in his life. "Tonight? Are you serious? How did you manage that?"

"Don't worry about that, the important thing is that we'll be arriving at 6:30 p.m., barring delays. Shelby is expecting us."

"That's great, Mom. It will be so good to see you."

"Oh baby...I almost lost you! I _have to _see you! Your dad feels the same way, too."

"Okay, that's great. But listen, today's Dad's...Greg's...birthday. Are you remembering that?"

A slight pause. "I had forgotten. I don't celebrate it, of course, son."

"Of course. But I'm giving him something special tonight...something I had made just for him." He flicked a glance over at his father. "Most of the team is coming over to his place, except the Lanes, because they needed to keep their lives low-key right now."

"I would think you would want 'low-key' now too, dear!"

He shrugged. "We're not going to make a big deal out of it, and it won't last long. But most of team _will_ be here. And it starts at 7:00." He frowned a little, imagining the usual tension his mother exuded when she felt upstaged by his father. "It's just that I've been looking forward to presenting this to him for a long time, now, and I don't want anything to delay it. But trust me, we'll keep the gathering very mellow."

"They'd be more than welcome to join us here," his father offered quietly.

Dean's jaw dropped for a moment. "Um...Greg says you'd be more than welcome to join us here. Shelby knows where he lives."

Silence.

"Well...I'll discuss it with your father, and we'll think about it on our way up. We have to pack now. I love you, son."

"I love you too, Mom."

He hung up and looked at his father.

His dad shrugged. "It was worth a try."

"But Dad...would you really want her to come?"

His father looked at nothing, thinking hard. "I have to believe that, if she were willing to come, she would also make up her mind to behave herself. She felt really bad about what happened at the tribute, and she wouldn't be likely to repeat it. Besides, you said that her whole attitude toward me has softened since then."

"Yeah, it has...but wow...to think of her coming to your birthday party...!"

"Well," his father chuckled, "if she comes, it won't be to celebrate my birthday. It will be to see you. And that's just fine."

###

When Clark finally awoke, his solitude still haunted him.

He resorted to his piano instinctively.

Most of his sheet music was kept inside the piano bench, but he always had several pieces up on the piano's music rack. Typically, those would be whatever pieces he currently needed to master for college, plus one other very special one.

He pulled that one out to the front of the stack now.

He could have played "Gnossienne No. 1" by heart, since he'd played it so often. But somehow the sight of the sheet music sitting there was part of the experience.

Part of the comfort.

He'd never asked himself why this particular song was the one he always turned to for solace. Of course it could have just been the hauntingly beautiful melody, but deep inside he knew it was more than that.

He also knew that he didn't want to think about the reason. So he just played, and let the consolation wash over him.

It felt like a promise. _Everything will be okay. It will._

_I'm safe._

He nuanced it, eyes closed, letting his fingers draw every ounce of emotion out of the instrument and the song. And when he came to the end, he played it again.

His mind went blank. And still he played. Over and over again.

After a while he began to feel anxious, almost angry. His fingers paused over the keyboard in mid-song. It had never hit him this way before.

_I need something this song can't give me._

Suddenly, violently, everything around him was ripped away, and he was back in the clearing, bound to a tree. His nostrils flared, both with panic and with the remembered smell of gasoline. A lighter jabbed toward his face, though in this flashback, it was actually lit.

_No, dummy, it wasn't lit. If it had been, you would be dead._ He shook his head to clear it, and forced his breathing to slow down. Then he rose abruptly to his feet and paced irritably. _Stupid of me. How could I think a stupid song would help me?_

He almost heard a slightly younger version of himself cry out inside his chest. _Don't call that song stupid!_

He froze.

He was again transported somewhere other than his apartment, but now it was no longer the clearing which met his mind's eye.

It was home. The home he grew up in. The home where that piano once lived, too.

The home where he'd learned to play Gnossienne No. 1.

He was sitting there now, as his younger self, practicing it for the performance for which he'd learned it. But he was doing more than practicing.

He was escaping.

_Everything hurt so bad, then. My dad...my dad was falling apart. Our whole family seemed like it was going to explode, and it was my dad's fault. And I didn't know what to do with the pain. I didn't know what to do with the horror of what my dad had done._

_May Dalton._

_Eighteen years old, dead because my father killed her._

_I'd never met her, but she haunted me. She haunted all of us. I hated Dad because of her, and I hated her because she made me hate Dad._

_I hated hating Dad. It made me hate the whole world._

Here, in this moment, he finally faced the feeling he had been unwilling to admit to himself back then. _ No, I didn't really hate him. I wanted to believe that I did, but I didn't._

_I missed him! I missed him so bad! All I wanted was to feel him hug me like he used to, to see him relax and smile like he used to, and I was so terrified that he never would do those things again._

_And I was so lost. So confused. So scared. But it was easier to be angry and to hate him than to feel that way. _

_Maybe hatred is just hurt love that wants to feel strong. Because scared love feels so weak..._

He began to pace.

_And I was playing the piano when he came home from work that day, after he went through the whole Harold Beamer thing. After the counseling session that finally broke him. After the meeting with his team when he finally came clean._

He nodded to himself. _That's right._ _I was playing Gnossienne when he came home, and I apologized because lately he'd hated noise, and even my music seemed like noise to him. I hadn't been able to practice much, because of the shift he was working, and the hours he was home. _

_But he looked at me... _

Clark could see it now...the softness in his father's face...a softness he hadn't seen in so long.

_He looked at me, and he said...he said..._ Clark's eyes filled with tears at the memory. _He said, 'Don't stop. It's beautiful.'_

_Don't stop. It's beautiful._

_And suddenly I wanted to play a whole concerto. I felt the sun come out, I felt hope._

_My dad didn't look like an ugly stranger any more. It was the beginning of all that became good between us._

_And I was playing this song. This song._ He sat down and looked at the sheet music again, fingers poised above the keys. But once again he found himself unable to play. He felt the same sick feeling in his gut that had made him stop before.

_I need something the song can't give me._

_The song's about getting my dad back. About hope, and healing, and getting my dad back._

_If I had died, I never would have seen him again..._

###

The doorbell rang at 6:55, and Greg opened it to reveal Spike and Winnie smiling on his doorstep. He returned their smiles with a broad one of his own. "Hey, guys, thanks for coming! C'mon in!" He beckoned them in, standing aside to let them through.

Winnie kissed his cheek on her way in. "Happy birthday, Boss." Spike hugged him and wished him the same, but then he paused and looked at Greg with obvious concern. He glanced around, and then spoke very quietly.

"Boss...are you sure Dean is feeling up to this, so soon after...you know...?"

"This is really, really important to him, Spike. He took a long nap this afternoon, too. And we're going to keep it brief. It'll be fine." He patted his friend on the back. "Soft drinks and beer in the kitchen. Help yourself."

"Where's Dean?" Winnie asked.

"Last time I saw him, he was in the kitchen, helping Marina."

The couple headed for the kitchen. Greg smiled to hear their warm greetings all around, and the genuine concern his colleagues so clearly showed for his son.

The doorbell rang again, and this time Sam and Jules greeted him when he opened it.

"Sam!" Greg reached for a hug. They hardly saw each other these days. "I hear great things about what you're doing with Team Three, buddy!"

"Thanks." Sam nodded, looking pleased. "They're not Team One, but they're going to give them a run for their money one of these days."

"I don't doubt it." He stooped to receive the kiss that Jules was standing on tip-toe to offer, and he planted its twin on her cheek.

He reassured them when they quietly asked after Dean's well-being, and then sent them on their way to the kitchen. "Thanks for coming, and help yourselves to refreshments."

"We wouldn't have missed it for anything, Boss," Jules replied over her shoulder as they walked away.

Greg stayed by the door; greeting, reassuring, and directing each guest, until all of his SRU friends now filled his apartment.

Except for the Lanes, of course.

_I hope they're doing all right!_

He joined his friends in the kitchen, popped open a soft drink, and took a long, long look at his son. Half of his gaze was just to enjoy the privilege of looking at him, but the other half was to appraise how well the boy was holding up.

_He looks awfully good for a kid who's been through everything he's been through. But it's partly a façade. He's pushing it, putting up a front._

_I'll have to strictly enforce the time limit on this thing._

He took a swallow of his pop, cleared his throat, and officially addressed his guests. "Thanks again, guys, for coming. I know you all understand why we need to keep this short and sweet tonight. How about if we move out to the living room and open the present that Dean gave me?"

He had insisted in advance that no one else bring gifts, pleading the need for brevity. To his relief, everyone had complied.

He and Marina planned to open her gift later.

So, when the group assembled in the living room, only one wrapped present awaited him. When he saw it, even though it was now nicely wrapped, he had to fight down the memory of seeing it in a bag in Dean's trunk.

For a moment, the memory threatened to wreck him. _How would I have been able to bear these beautiful things if he had died?_

He swallowed hard, blinked back tears, and sat down in the place of honor.

Dean seemed to want to say something formally, so Greg sat back and watched him, trying not to show how protective he felt right now.

"Ok, well...like my dad said, this is a very special moment for me. I've been planning this for a long time."

The doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," Jules offered, since she was closest to the door. She opened it, then stepped aside to offer Greg an unobstructed view. "Hi there," she said, but then looked at Greg with eyes full of uncertainty.

Greg's mouth dropped open, and he kept staring as if the faces might change if he looked away.

"Glen, Joanne! Come in!"

They both called out Dean's name as they rushed in, and he met them halfway. Soon the three stood in a weeping huddle.

_I can't believe she came! _

_I thought he might, but never her._

Most of the people in that room had also been at the anniversary tribute more than a year ago, and had seen the debacle that Joanne had caused afterwards. Each one looked Greg in the eyes now, and he could see that they were worried for him.

Jules, kind-hearted soul that she was, came to stand beside Greg with her arm around him.

He gave her a squeeze, then went to his favorite easy-chair and sat down. Marina was already seated in the chair beside it, and she leaned to put her head on his shoulder.

He kissed her forehead.

Even those who knew less about Greg's family clearly felt moved by the tearful reunion in the center of the room. No one spoke.

Finally, with much sniffling, tissue passing, and seat-shuffling, Glen and Joanne sat down.

Dean still stood, and he could barely talk. After a moment, Greg stood and put a hand on his back. "It's okay, son, you don't need to say anything. Should I just open it?"

Dean looked into his eyes for a few moments, and then nodded with obvious regret. Greg hugged him for a moment, and then sat back down.

Dean sat down on the coffee table, beside the gift, and gave it to his father.

He picked up the card first, and had to wipe his eyes before he could open it. He was only half-here. Half of him still stood by an open trunk, fearing that his son was already dead.

He sighed a shuddering sigh, and then laughed the kind of fragile laugh that's designed to replace sobs.

Jules handed him a tissue, and he plied it, and then inwardly chided himself and opened the card.

"To My Father," it said on the cover, as he knew it would. But he hadn't opened it at the scene, so he knew nothing more until he opened it now.

The stock script said,

A great father is a hero with heart,

Bulldog devotion with a gentle soul,

A role-model, an inspiration, a mentor, a guide.

You are all these things, and more.

I love you, Dad.

The card held many more words, written in Dean's familiar hand. "Would you like me to read the card aloud, son?" he asked.

"Sure, if you want."

But no matter how much Greg blinked, or how much he wiped at his eyes, he simply could not read through his tears anymore.

Another fragile laugh. He glanced around the room, and every face was almost as broken up as his own. "I...I just can't read it, I'm sorry..."

"Here, give it to me, Boss." Sam reached for it, and Greg handed it to him gratefully.

Sam cleared his throat, and he began by reading the stock words in an official, strong tone. Even those clearly got under his skin, but he cleared his throat and continued.

"Okay, Dean wrote, 'Dear Dad, no matter how much I say, or how much I write, I will never be able to tell you all that you mean to me.'"

Greg caught Dean shooting a guilty glance at his mom and stepdad. But Glen was smiling and a little misty, and Joanne seemed teary and only a bit uncomfortable.

Right now, Greg couldn't even process the wonder of this apparent truce. Sam was still reading.

"'But I know,'" Sam continued, "'that I will probably never say it better than I did at the Tribute."

Several people nodded and smiled.

"'For months now, I've been wanting to present you with something from that day, and from the speech that I gave. So I spent a long time editing my speech down, keeping all of the best parts, until it could fit on two pages. Then I tracked down a calligrapher, and shopped for the nicest frames I could find. I wanted my gift to show how much you mean to me, but of course it can't do that. Still, I wanted to try.'"

Sam paused to flip the card over and read the back. "'You can't know how I felt about almost losing you..."'

Here Sam stopped, a little broken up, and nearly everyone gasped.

"When I wrote this," Dean choked out, "I had no idea..."

Greg squeezed his shoulder with his free hand, the one Marina wasn't holding.

Sam backed up to the beginning of the sentence and proceeded admirably, though it was clearly not easy going.

"You can't know how I felt about almost losing you, but I can tell you that it was like seeing my own heart held at gunpoint. I didn't know how I would go on without that piece of myself."

Sam stopped to collect himself.

Greg reached for Dean, who still sat on the coffee table in front of him. He pulled the boy's head down to his shoulder, and they held each other for a while. Both struggled against breaking down again, and their breathing announced their struggles to everyone around them.

The room paused; wordless, weeping. The tissue box made its rounds again. All of the old pain from the day of the bombings and its aftermath now mingled with the pain of this new ordeal.

"I know exactly how you felt, son. I do." Greg released his son and leaned back against the back of his chair. For now, he could only wipe his eyes and struggle to keep his breathing semi-controlled.

Marina snuggled as close as she could, wiping her eyes. He leaned into her comforting warmth.

Greg couldn't take his eyes off of Dean. _I hope this isn't too much for him. Maybe I shouldn't have allowed this today._

Sam cleared his throat. Jules put her arm around his shoulder and squeezed him tight, as if to fortify him.

"'So, Dad,"' Sam soldiered on, '" I hope that you'll hang these on your wall, and every time you see them, I hope you'll know how much I love you."' He set the card down on his lap with the relieved air of a man who had discharged a particularly heroic duty.

_Which is exactly what you did, my friend. Well done._ "Thank you so much, Sam."

Sam only nodded his acknowledgment and thumbed tears from his eyes.

Greg suddenly realized that he couldn't indulge emotional exhaustion any longer. _Dean needs me to wrap this up._ He appraised his son's well-being even as he leaned forward to pick up the gift. Dean seemed like a man overwrought, somehow clinging to control.

_Yes, we need to end this._

"Dean, if it's too much, I could open these later..."

"No, now." Dean nodded and gave him an almost desperate little smile.

Greg caught both of his meanings. "Now" meant "not later," but it also meant, "Hurry."

_He can't take much more._

He started removing the wrappings, but he already knew that what they concealed would be "much more." _I'm not sure this is wise._

He realized he was delaying, making it take too long. And then he realized that, no matter what his fears, he mustn't steal the joy of this from Dean. So he opened his heart to the beautiful pain again, and pulled his gift from its wrappings.

It truly was a gorgeous work of calligraphy, beautifully encased in a hinged dual-frame designed for hanging. As he skimmed through the words, he could see the effort that had gone into editing that long speech down into something that captured its essence, while feeling like a complete work in itself. He could only shake his head as he read it, once again only half-present. Half of him sat at Fletcher stadium listening to Dean's tribute for the very first time.

Marina leaned close, reading it over his shoulder.

"Guys," he said at last, "I think...I think that we shouldn't try reading this aloud today."

Everyone nodded.

"I'll put it on the dining room table," he said, standing to do just that. "Feel free to come look at it, and to have cake and ice cream. It's a wonderful gift. But I need a few moments with my son."

Everyone but Dean accompanied him to the dining room, though Joanne and Glen clearly wanted to stay with Dean.

Greg accepted hugs all around, except from Joanne (though she did offer him a small, tearful smile). Then he went back to the living room, to his son.

Dean leaned on him with what felt like utter exhaustion.

"Son," Greg whispered, "this has been a beautiful evening, but you're all in. There's no shame in admitting that."

"I know."

Greg shifted his weight, and Dean instantly pulled his own weight back. "Sorry. Did I hurt your leg?"

"No," Greg fibbed a little.

"I honestly didn't expect it to be this hard."

"You've been through so much, son...more than I can even imagine. More than you've had time to process."

Dean only nodded. But then he smiled. "Mom came!"

Greg smiled, and his smile broadened as he thought about it. "I know."

"I don't even know how long they'll be here."

"We'll find out. But no matter what, son, you can _not_ do anything more tonight. Not tonight. Okay?"

Dean sighed with a shudder. "Yeah. I know." He sank to sit on the sofa. "Maybe you should get them now."

"Sure, son. Sure." Greg turned, intending to hurry into the kitchen. But he saw Joanne and Glen standing at a polite distance, watching.

"Oh good, I was just coming to get you. Dean's exhausted, and he wanted to see you..."

"Thank you." They both walked to Dean, sat on either side of him, and embraced him.

Greg hovered briefly, but then realized that he had to honor their privacy. So he returned to the kitchen with some reluctance.

A multitude of loving smiles greeted him, and with them came a wave of exhaustion which reminded Greg that he, too, had been through more than he'd been able to process.

Spike hurriedly pulled out a chair and gestured for him to sit down. _I guess it shows..._

"What can I get you, hon?" Marina asked. "There's cake and ice cream..." she shrugged, seeming to know already that he wouldn't want either of those right now. But he was glad to see that others had dug in.

"Nothing now, hon. Later." He patted the hand that she'd placed on his shoulder.

Jules shot some very significant looks at everybody, and almost instantly everyone began saying their goodbyes. _Yep, she's the team leader, all right_. Greg smiled despite his fatigue.

He didn't stand up. He simply lacked the strength. But everyone shook his hand, or thumped his back, or bent to hug him. Jules and Leah and Winnie each kissed his cheek.

Everyone but Greg and Marina filed out of the kitchen, but very quietly, and Greg could hear that their goodbyes were very calm and subdued for Dean's sake.

"You are going straight to bed, I trust," said Marina.

"Just try and stop me." He drew her down for a quick kiss. "I hope you won't mind if we put off your present until tomorrow..."

"I was about to suggest that myself."

He gave himself a few more minutes' rest before struggling to his feet, and he let Marina help him hobble as they walked, arm-around-waist.

Glen and Joanne were still in the living room. Greg had forgotten all about them in his eagerness to get to bed.

Dean was seated, and he looked more rested than he had before, so Greg relaxed a bit, too.

Dean turned a tired smile to Greg. "Mom and Dad...Glen...are going to stay in Toronto for the next three days. We've made plans to spend a lot of low-key time together."

Greg smiled. "That's good."

Joanne spoke up. "Dean has told us that it was you who figured out that they were in danger, and that you helped to track them down, and went tramping through the woods even with that bad leg of yours..."

"Least I could do."

She nodded, looked down, and then looked up to meet his eyes again. He still could hardly believe it possible, but she did.

"I just wanted to say that...well...thank you, for everything. And..." she paused, looked at Dean, and then at Glen, who gave her an encouraging nod.

She looked down again, seeming to gather courage.

Greg waited patiently, and was soon rewarded with her quiet gaze again. No hatred. No rage. He could hardly take it in.

"And...I wanted to say that I'm sorry for...for how angry I've been all these years. You obviously are a changed man, I realized it after the last time I saw you, and what you did for Dean then...and I...I'm ready to put the past behind us, if you are."

Greg got choked up for the umpteenth time that day. "Nothing would please me more." He glanced over at Dean and saw him watching with tearful, joyful awe.

Glen give Joanne a squeeze, and a kiss on her head. "And," Glen added, "We'd be happy to have more time together with all of us, including you and Marina, while we're here."

"Thank you," Greg and Marina replied. "We'd like that too," Greg added.

Glen and Joanne hugged and kissed Dean one last time, and headed out the door.

Dean went straight to his bedroom as soon as they left, barely managing to say "good night." Greg went and stood by his door for a while, listening for any signs of distress. But all was quiet, so eventually he headed for his own room.

He undressed and got into his pajamas, a little annoyed that even this simple activity could be so painful and fatiguing after a hard day. But he got it done, and then plugged his phone into its charger on the nightstand.

He laid down on his side and, out of habit, pulled his phone close to check it for anything he might have missed. He'd hardly looked at it for days, beyond what he'd needed to do in the search for Dean.

Marina snuggled close to his back and kissed his shoulder.

He saw a notification for a sent photo that he hadn't viewed yet. _What could that be? I don't remember anyone sending me anything._

He tapped the notification, and up popped a photo. _The_ photo. Himself, standing next to Dean and Craig Hammond. Smiling like a blind fool next to the man who would torture and try to murder his son.

He shot up as if his pillow had caught fire, and sat staring at that photo with horror and loathing.

"What is it? Honey..." Marina crawled over to sit next to him, and she looked at the picture without comment at first.

"Oh wait...is that _him_?"

Greg only nodded. He felt nauseated.

"Honey, delete it. Delete it right now." She took the phone out of his hands.

He felt like he should stop her; like it might be evidence. But Hammond was dead. _What difference could it make?_

He watched as she hurriedly made the photo permanently disappear. But he couldn't erase it from his mind. He could almost feel it filing itself away, right next to the audio file of Donna's voice in his memory, telling him about the camera with the blinking light...

The file was marked, "Things I can't forgive myself for."

"Honey, you're breathing so hard. You're really upset, sweetie. How can I help?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Lie down, lie down and let me hold you, then."

He complied, but he knew it wouldn't help. He focused on his breathing, and on reminding himself that Dean would be fine.

Eventually he dozed off, but almost instantly was dreaming. He was in bed in his dream, too, but it was Joanne who lay beside him. And Dean was crying the cry of a little child awakened by a nightmare. Greg got up and went to him, and stretched out on the bed beside him, comforting him with his nearness.

He awoke and listened to see if his now-grown son were, in fact, in distress. But the house was silent. Marina slept peacefully beside him.

He couldn't go back to sleep.

Eventually he knew what he had to do, even though he knew he would regret it in the morning. He got up very quietly, took his pillow, and sneaked out of the room. He snagged an afghan off the couch on his way by, and cautiously let himself into Dean's room.

The boy breathed deeply, clearly asleep.

Greg dropped his pillow on the floor beside Dean's bed, and put the afghan down for a little padding, though he knew it wouldn't provide enough to keep him from getting very sore indeed.

Then he stretched out there beside his son's bed, comforting himself with his nearness.

And he slept.

###

Clark hardly knew that he stumbled out of his apartment. He locked his door by rote, trotted to his car in the dark without really seeing anything, drove to his parents' home on auto-pilot.

The house was dark with sleep, though the night was still relatively young.

He let himself in; still seeking without telling himself what he sought, still needing without telling himself what he needed.

He turned on lights and walked almost automatically to where his piano used to stand. Then he turned to look at the doorway where his father had said those wonderful words to him back then. Back when he'd found hope again.

_Don't stop. It's beautiful._

But his father stood there now, too, blinking against the light; pajama-ed, shirtless, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"Clark? Buddy...what can I do for you?"

"I just...I just needed _you_, Dad..." His voice broke.

Strong arms engulfed him, and he let himself relax into them. Let himself sob for what he'd almost lost, and for the joy of what he had.

He'd shed plenty of tears over the past few, very traumatic years. But this time he found himself opening up a deeper place in his heart which he'd never opened before, and allowing both himself and his father free access.

"I'm right here, buddy. I'm right here." Dad's voice was soft, and a bit choked up.

A few moments later he felt his mother's arms encircle him and his father together. He adjusted his hug to include her, too.

Oddly enough, though there was no longer a piano in the house, he could hear the strains of "Gnossienne No. 1" playing once again.


End file.
